


Lady Archimedes

by White_Squirrel



Series: Arithmancer-Verse [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Arithmancy, F/M, Gen, Math Whiz Hermione, Mathematics, Powerful Hermione, Rituals, Spellcrafting, responsible adults
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-19
Updated: 2018-07-07
Packaged: 2019-04-25 00:58:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 82
Words: 563,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14367483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/White_Squirrel/pseuds/White_Squirrel
Summary: Sequel to The Arithmancer. Armed with a N.E.W.T. in Arithmancy after Voldemort’s return, Hermione takes spellcrafting to new heights and must push the bounds of magic itself to help Harry defeat his enemy once and for all. Years 5-7.





	1. Fifth Year, Summer

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All maths in this story is real and correct to the best of my knowledge. All arithmancy in this story besides the tiny amount mentioned in the books is stuff I made up. JK Rowling owns the rest.
> 
> Ancient Runes gets a lot of play in fan fiction for things like warding and making magical artifacts, but Arithmancy doesn’t get nearly as much attention as the basis for spellcrafting. After seeing only a couple of stories that even attempted to address the subject seriously, I decided to write one of my own, featuring Hermione as a maths whiz instead of a bookworm, based on the world’s most gifted real-life child prodigies. That story became The Arithmancer, which concluded at the end of fourth year. Lady Archimedes is the sequel, beginning the summer after Voldemort’s return.
> 
> The story so far: Hermione tested into Arithmancy in first year and has now completed her N.E.W.T. She has made several major breakthroughs in the field and has published a number of scholarly papers. She has also worked hard to maintain a close relationship with her parents and has told them everything that happened at Hogwarts, even though they made her go to Beauxbatons starting in fourth year because of it.
> 
> Sirius is free, and Wormtail is in Azkaban. Barty Crouch Jr is free and working with Voldemort. Cedric survived the Third Task, but he lost an arm and a leg in a duel with Barty Jr. Harry and Ginny are dating. Hermione is currently unattached, although she went to the Yule Ball with George during a visit to Britain.
> 
> Yes, there will be maths, but you won’t need to understand it to understand the story.

The summer was young, and spirits were running high for most people in Crawley. Children played outside, families went on holidays or day trips to the cinema or the water park, mothers gardened, and fathers went to football matches—or vice versa in some cases. However, one teenage girl was not yet out enjoying the sun. This was not because the summer had blossomed uncommonly hot and dry, though it had. Nor was it because she was a die-hard academic with a legendary penchant for numbers who preferred to spend her day at a library rather than a water park, although all that was true, too. No, it was because she was haunted by the horror than had befallen two of her closest friends just a few days before.

Hermione Granger considered herself plain, but her wardrobe reflected it more than her face. She was pretty enough, and she knew how to clean up well, and her hair, thanks to a few simple tricks she had devised, she maintained in rich, brown curls that draped loosely about her shoulders—a big improvement over the bushy mass that appeared in her younger photos in the house.

She sat on her bed, quietly contemplating an array of thin wooden wands. The first, accorded a place of honour, was _hers_ —tan in colour, ten and three quarter inches long, made from a woody vine and carved with an intricate ivy motif, with a strand of dragon heart-string at its centre. It was orders of magnitude better than any of the others and perfectly in tune with her magic.

Hermione Granger was a witch, probably the most gifted of her generation in Britain.  And if she was gifted in most things, she was a genius in terms of maths, possibly the mostly brilliant arithmancer of the entire twentieth century, and that wasn’t just her saying that; it was people who had lived through the entire twentieth century already.

The half dozen other wands on her bed were a mixed bag. Some were store-bought, and some were hand-made. Some had miniscule runes carved into them that you needed a magnifying glass to see, and some were perfectly smooth. The cheapest would burn out like a flash bulb if you tried to use it as anything more than a torch; none would hold up to more than a few months of regular use. All but one had magical plant fibres at their cores, but the last one was different.

She picked up the last wand and held it flat across her palm. The others were mere toys, but this one was a little more advanced. It was made from a hand-picked twig of beech wood from the south of France. At its heart was one of her own hairs, and the glue that held it together was mixed with a drop of her own blood. According to her research, this wand would work only for her, and it would show up on the Ministry Trace as accidental magic, so she wouldn’t get in trouble for using it.

She had made this wand so that she could keep using magic through the summer without falling afoul of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery—a privilege that most children whose parents were witches and wizards already enjoyed. But now, at what should have been her moment of triumph, she had another concern: protecting herself. And its protection felt wholly inadequate.

A wand was only worth anything if you could wield it, and she had seen firsthand—well, almost firsthand—how quickly that could be taken away. Her good friend, Cedric Diggory, had lost both his wand and the arm that wielded it in one stroke in a duel with a man named Barty Crouch Jr, servant of Lord Voldemort. That battle had also cost Cedric a leg and had cost a lot of people their peace of mind when Voldemort was somehow brought back from the dead. Hermione’s best friend, Harry Potter, Voldemort’s number one target, had barely made it out of there with his own life.

With Voldemort back, a new war was sure to start in magical Britain, as bad as the war that had killed Harry’s parents and many others. And what made it much, much worse was that the Ministry of Magic was in complete denial about it.

Hence her desire for personal protection.

Most wizards didn’t even carry backup wands, which wasn’t an unreasonable position. After all, how many muggles—non-magic folk—carried more than one gun, even in America? How many carried more than one knife? And wands weren’t cheap: three or four hundred quid, depending on the exchange rate, but a gun or a knife couldn’t be snapped like a twig. She’d feel safer with a backup, and even with this latest homemade wand, she worried about it burning out in a real fight.

“Hmm…how much do I have saved up?” she wondered out loud. “Maybe I should just buy a spare.”

Hermione had marketed a line of single-use potions kits that used runes to eliminate the need for wands, thus allowing non-magicals to use them. They weren’t big sellers, but they got her some pocket change. She also had a one-third silent partnership in a new small business called Creevey Bros. Pictures, which was currently the only business able to pull magical photographs off of Omniocular recordings. She had helped invent the process, and the Creevey Brothers had insisted she take a share, such as it was. On the other hand, she also had to pay a house elf one galleon per week when he wasn’t subcontracted to her school, so she wasn’t exactly rolling in it.

Then, there were her spells. Hermione was shaping up to be an excellent spellcrafter. Harry and Cedric had survived facing Voldemort using three of her spells. Now, she was wrapping up her independent study of partial differential equations, and she was finding them much more relevant than before. PDEs were what you used to construct most of the really powerful curses, and if war was coming, she was resolved to pursue that line of study much further.

She barely noticed the doorbell until her mother called up the stairs, “Hermione, there’s someone here to see you.”

Quickly stuffing the blood-bound wand down her sock (she needed something better for that, too), she made her way to the stairs. Merlin’s beard, she was getting paranoid. Only a week, and she already felt naked if she didn’t have a wand on her at all times.

At the foot of the stairs, she received a surprise. Standing in her living room was an old wizard in colourful, flowing robes, high-heeled boots, and a pointed hat: Albus Dumbledore, Headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

“Professor Dumbledore,” she said. “What’s happening? Has there been any news about Cedric?”

“Mr. Diggory is mending about as well as can be expected under the circumstances, Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said. “He will be in the hospital at least another week, however. There is something else I would like to discuss with you today.”

“Well, come and sit down,” Hermione’s mum said. “Can we get you anything?”

“A spot of tea, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Granger.”

“Of course. Dobby?”

_Pop!_

A small, wrinkled creature, three feet tall, with bat-like ears and eyes the exact size and colour of tennis balls appeared in the room. “Yes, Mrs. Granger?” he said in a squeaky voice.

“Could you brew up a pot of tea for our guest, please?”

“Yes, ma’am. Good day, Headmaster Dumbledore, sir,” Dobby said. He trotted off to the kitchen.

Dobby was a house elf whom Hermione had managed to free from his abusive master, Lucius Malfoy, two years ago, and he was proud to accent one galleon per week to work for her family. While he got the tea started, Dumbledore and the Grangers sat down.

“So what’s this about, Professor?” Hermione’s dad said. “You’re not Hermione’s headmaster anymore.”

Hermione had spent three mostly pleasant years at Hogwarts, but after she went through four near-death experiences there, Dan and Emma Granger’s admittedly long patience had run out with the place, and they transfered their daughter to Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in the south of France, where she spent the past year (except for a few visits related to Harry’s unwilling participation in the Triwizard Tournament).

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Granger,” Dumbledore said. “This is about another matter. Am I correct in assuming your daughter told you about the return of Lord Voldemort?”

“Yes, she did. She also said your Ministry wasn’t doing anything about it.”

He nodded: “This is true.”

“Are we in danger here?” Mum asked. As a muggle-born and a friend of Harry, Hermione and her parents knew she would be high on Voldemort’s kill list if things were to get really bad.

“I do not believe so. Voldemort is likely to use the Ministry’s inaction to lie low and recruit followers. In the meantime, if I may have your confidence, I am organising a covert group to work against Voldemort, and no, I’m not asking your daughter to join it—ah, thank you Dobby,” he said as the elf brought in the tea. “However, I am offering Hermione a chance to join us at our meeting place for the summer. We have a safe house, which has been placed under the Fidelius Charm, and if you are concerned about her safety, I daresay she will be safer there than here.”

“The what charm?” Dad asked.

“It’s a way of magically binding a secret so only one person can tell it,” Hermione spoke up. “Who’s the Secret Keeper, Professor?”

“I am.” That was good. The Fidelius Charm sounded good on parchment, but Harry’s parents had been betrayed to their deaths by their Secret Keeper. “You may be interested to know, Miss Granger, that the Weasley Family will be moving into the safe house this weekend, and of course, Harry will be later in the summer.”

“Hermione hasn’t even been home a week,” Mum objected. “If there’s no serious threat, like you say, we don’t want her leaving again so soon.”

“That is understandable, of course,” Dumbledore conceded.

“When is Harry going to be there?” Hermione asked. Her parents shot her a questioning look, and she added, “I know I don’t get to see you two enough as it is, and I do want to stay here longer, but I’d also like to see my friends this summer before I go back to France. If I could get a longer stay in here…”

“In answer to your question, Miss Granger, Sirius has his heart set on the thirtieth of July to bring Harry to Headquarters.”

The day before Harry’s birthday, of course: fitting, since he was currently stuck with his emotionally abusive relatives for the sake of magical protection, and that was a whole other can of worms. “Then maybe I could go around that time,” she offered. “That way, I would still get another month here. And we would still meet up for school shopping before I leave for Beauxbatons, of course.”

Dan and Emma looked at each other and reached a silent consensus. “I think part of the summer would be alright,” Emma said. “We can discuss the details later.”

“Thank you, Mum,” Hermione said with relief.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “Please keep me informed of your decision. Now, there is another matter of some importance, Miss Granger,” he added, suddenly becoming much more serious.

“Yes, Professor?” Hermione asked worriedly.

“As you might guess, this information that I’ve given you is very sensitive, as is other information you might encounter this summer. Owls can be intercepted, as can muggle post—by either Voldemort or the Ministry. It is imperative that when you write to your friends, you do not mention any such sensitive information. The risk of it being found out is too great. This is especially true for Harry, who will be most closely monitored.”

Hermione frowned: “Harry’s not going to like that, Professor. He’s already anxious to know what Voldemort’s up to. He’ll go stir crazy if we don’t tell him anything. And he’ll be furious at us. You know he doesn’t have many lifelines at the Dursleys.”

“I am aware of that, Miss Granger. Nonetheless, it will be safest for Harry and everyone else involved if he is not told any more than he truly needs to know.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed at him, while her mum took up the argument: “Professor, she’s right. Anyone would hate to be kept out of the loop like that. Isn’t there some way to work around it?”

“I wish there was, Mrs. Granger, but this _is_ a very sensitive covert operation. Miss Granger, I will ask you to promise me you won’t tell Harry any more than he needs to know. Our organisation cannot risk this information being found out.”

“I’m not so sure she should,” Mum objected. “It sounds like you’re safe enough. We don’t want our daughter abandoning her best friend like that.”

“I’m afraid I must insist.”

“But—”

“Mum,” Hermione cut her off. Something seemed off about this request. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Dumbledore’s judgement, exactly, but it definitely went against her _own_ better judgement. But at the same time, she knew Dumbledore wouldn’t take no for an answer, so she thought fast and said, “Professor, I promise I will not risk sending Harry any sensitive information that could be intercepted.”

Dumbledore nodded with a small smile: “Thank you, Miss Granger. I am glad you are willing to trust me in this. The tea was very good, Dobby. Unfortunately, I must be going. There is much to do.” He turned to go, but stopped and added. “Oh, and Miss Granger, I haven’t had the chance to personally congratulate you for your proof of the sixth exception to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration. That was truly some of the best arithmantic work I’ve ever seen. I wish we had time to discuss it in more detail.”

“Uh, thank you, Professor,” Hermione said, blushing.

“You’re quite welcome, Miss Granger. Good afternoon.”

As soon as Dumbledore shut the door and vanished with a crack, Emma turned on her daughter. “Hermione, I’m surprised at you,” she said. “You’re really going to keep your best friend in the dark just because that man told you to?”

Hermione smiled at her, “No, Mum, I don’t believe I ever said _that_. Don’t worry. I have a plan.”

* * *

In the smallest, poorest-kept bedroom of Number 4 Privett Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, a thin, bespectacled boy lay on his bed, thumbing with annoyance through a copy of the _Daily Prophet._ He was dressed in decent clothes, although they were getting a bit short for him, but he didn’t otherwise put much effort into his upkeep. His black hair was messy and uncombed, mostly covering up the lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead.

Harry Potter was not happy being in his relatives’ house again, and even less so for having to stay there for over a month. The feeling was mutual. His muggle relatives didn’t hold with anything they considered “abnormal,” and their interaction with him this week had mostly consisted of things like, “If you’re going to be stuck here again, you’d better earn your keep. You can start by weeding the flower beds.”

Harry was a marked man in more ways than one. The most evil wizard alive today was back and wanted him dead. He checked the magical news and even tried to listen in on the muggle news for any information on Voldemort’s movements, but he got nothing—not that it surprised him. The only thing he had seen that was remotely related was a statement by the Minister for Magic, Cornelius Fudge, calling Albus Dumbledore a liar and casting aspersions on Harry’s mental stability. After that, nothing.

As he stewed in his thoughts, he heard a small pop. Looking around in alarm, he saw a green-eyed house elf standing beside his bed.

“Dobby?” he hissed. “What are you doing here?” This didn’t bode well, he thought. The last time Dobby had shown up in his bedroom, it hadn’t gone well for him. He’d wound up locked in and had to be rescued by one of his teachers and a giant purple bus.

This time, though, Dobby was smiling. “I has a letter for Harry Potter, sir,” he said, “from Miss Hermione Granger.”

“From Hermione?” Harry sat up eagerly. “Where is it?”

“It is here, sir. She is ordering me to give it directly to your hands and not lets anyone else see, sir. She is not wanting you to lets anyone else see, either. Professor Dumbledore is not trusting owls, sir.”

Harry’s own owl, Hedwig, barked disapprovingly as Dobby handed over the letter.”

“Er, thanks, Dobby,” Harry said. “Um, if I want to write back to her, do I need to go through you, or can I send Hedwig.”

Dobby thought for a minute and said, “It is being best if you gives it to Dobby, sir. Hmm…I wills return tomorrow night to ask you if you has a letter for Miss Hermione, sir.”

“Oh. Okay, then. Tell Hermione thanks for me.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dobby vanished with a pop, and Harry opened the letter.

 

_Dear Harry,_

_I_ _’m sending this letter with Dobby because Dumbledore is worried about owls and muggle post being intercepted. He sounded a little paranoid to me, but he made me promise not to send you anything important that could be intercepted. He showed up at my house today; he didn’t talk long, but I’ll tell you what I know._

_Dumbledore_ _’s putting together a group to fight Voldemort, and they have a safe house. It’s under the Fidelius Charm with Dumbledore as the Secret Keeper. The Weasleys are going there this weekend, and Sirius wants to take you there the day before your birthday. Dumbledore offered to take me there this weekend, but I want to spend more time with Mum and Dad first. I’ll probably go around the same time you do._

_About Voldemort, Dumbledore didn_ _’t say anything except that he’s lying low to recruit, and we’re probably safe here for now. Also, if Dumbledore gives the Weasleys the same talk he gave me, we probably won’t hear much from them, but we might learn one or two things._

_Cedric_ _’s doing better. Mum and Dad say I can visit him tomorrow, so I’ll know more about him then._

_I hope the Dursleys aren_ _’t giving you too hard a time, Harry. You deserve better than to be stuck there all month. Just try to focus on your homework or something and try to ignore what the Prophet or whoever says about you._

_It_ _’s probably best if you write to me through Dobby. I would guess Hedwig won’t be able to reach the Weasleys through the Fidelius, but you can send her to Cedric or Neville or anybody else you want as long as you don’t reveal too much. Hopefully, we’ll see you soon._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

Well, at least Dumbledore was doing something, even if it didn’t sound like much. He didn’t sound like he was being very forthcoming, and nothing seemed to be happening at the moment, anyway. Harry wanted to take issue with what Hermione said about the Weasleys. There were seven Weasley kids, four of whom were still in school with him. All of them were good people, and the youngest, Ginny, was his he-wasn’t-quite-comfortable-calling-her-his-girlfriend-…-yet. Surely, _she_ would tell him what was going on, even if no one else would. Except then he remembered, Mrs. Weasley would be there, and if anyone could make Ginny follow Dumbledore’s wishes, it was Ginny’s mother. They might have to play that one by ear.

* * *

In the morning, the Grangers headed up to London to visit Cedric in the hospital, and so that Hermione could look for some new maths books—both magical and muggle. She had just sat her N.E.W.T. exam in Arithmancy, but she had already performed far more advanced feats using university-level muggle maths. Most recently, she had proved (with some help) that radioactive elements comprised a sixth exception to Gamp’s Law and could not be transfigured (a very good thing, in her opinion). She was getting _fan mail_ for that, which was a bit unnerving.

Meanwhile, she had almost studied enough maths to get a muggle university degree in the subject. She was nearly through the standard partial differential equations curriculum, and she wasn’t really sure where to look next. Maybe some real analysis for the autumn term.

“And I think it’s time we got a subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ for delivery to the house,” she told her parents. “We need to keep on top of things there.”

Their first stop of the day was St. Mungo’s Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. It wasn’t easy to find, being made up to look like an abandoned department store front, but once inside, things were straightforward. Hermione told the Welcome Witch she wanted to visit Cedric Diggory, and she was directed to the Artifact Accidents ward—which is what having your leg ripped off by a Portkey was. His arm had been shredded by a Bludgeoning Hex instead, but it was close enough. Upon informing the ward’s head Healer, they were announced, and Cedric asked them to come in. As they did, however, a short and tearful Chinese girl nearly bowled Hermione over as she rushed from the room.

“Cho?” Hermione said.

The girl didn’t respond as she headed for the exit. Cho Chang was—or had been—Cedric’s girlfriend, but Hermione wasn’t sure what their situation was now.

Inside the room, Cedric was lying on a bed, leaning back against the headboard. He was paler than Hermione remembered him, and he looked weary, but he was still handsome, despite his injuries. She had had a crush on him last year—still did a little bit, if she was honest with herself, but she had developed a greater interest in George Weasley ever since she had gone with him to the Yule Ball. Not that it mattered with her going to a different school.

Even covered up, you could tell that Cedric was missing a leg, and the bandaged stump of right arm ended just above the elbow, leaving him trying to awkwardly do everything left handed. His parents were sitting by his bedside.

“Hermione, hi. It’s good to see you,” Cedric said. He smiled, but his weariness coming through strongly. She stepped closer to the bed, and he gripped her shoulder in a weak attempt at a one-armed hug.

“Hi, Cedric. How are you holding up?” Hermione said nervously.

“I’m getting by. Eating’s the hardest part,” he tried to say lightly. “Of course, I haven’t tried to do much that takes more than one hand yet.”

Hermione sighed, not sure how to approach him. “Er, I’m glad you’re improving,” she answered lamely. “Um, oh, these are my parents, Daniel and Emma.”

“Pleased to meet you Mr. and Mrs. Granger.” Cedric said. He shook their hands left-handed. “These are my parents, Amos and Celeste.”

The introductions soon completed, and Mr. Diggory shook Hermione’s hand vigorously. “We didn’t get a chance to thank you properly, Miss Granger,” he said. “According to Cedric, one of your spells saved his life.”

“I suppose so.”

“No supposing about it. He told us the only reason Barty Junior missed that first curse was because you taught him something faster. And you didn’t have to teach him those spells at all. We know you’re closer with Harry Potter.” He leaned closer and added in a low voice, “We believe him, by the way, about You-Know-Who coming back. I can’t believe our Cedric could have gone through all that for a random madman. We can’t say it too loud, though, not with the way Fudge has been this week.”

“Uh, thank you, Mr. Diggory. I’m sure Harry will appreciate that.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Granger, you have a brilliant daughter,” he went on. “You must be very proud.”

“We certainly are,” Dad said. “We could tell she was one of a kind right from the start. It would just be nice if she could stay away from trouble for once.”

On that awkward note, Hermione tried to change the subject, though she didn’t succeed in making it less awkward. “So, if you don’t mind me asking, Cedric, is Cho alright?”

He sighed heavily: “I don’t know. She’s been in here a few times, but she can’t seem to look at me without crying.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pried—”

“No, it’s fine. It’s not like she’s being private about it. Cho wears her emotions on her sleeve, you know? We’ll just have to wait and see.”

“Oh…um…do you…know how much longer you’ll be here?” _Still not helping the awkwardness. Come on, Hermione, you can do better than this!_

“The Healers say another week or two. I’ll be getting a prosthetic arm and leg soon, but I’ll need therapy to use them.”

“Oh, that’s good. I imagine magical prosthetics are really good.”

“Not always. Remember Moody? Real or fake, he still walked with a limp.”

“Oh…”

“Don’t get me wrong; it’ll be good to have two arms again, even if they’re both rubbish with a quill, but you can’t cast spells with a prosthetic. That has to be your real arm. I’ll have to relearn everything left-handed for school.”

Suddenly, Hermione brightened. “Actually, I think I can help you with that, Cedric?”

“You can?” he said in surprise.

“Yes. I’ve been teaching myself left-handed casting for the past year, ever since that dementor froze my wand hand. I didn’t want to be left without it again. I can come by over the next few weeks and help you with the wand movements.”

“Really? You’d do that for me?”

“Of course I would. I wouldn’t want you to miss out on a Charms N.E.W.T. for something like this.”

Cedric smiled. “You’re a good friend, Hermione,” he said. “And so’s Harry, for that matter. Do you know he owled me his half of the winnings?”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose: “No. I know he was talking about it, but I didn’t know he’d done it.”

“He did. He wrote a letter saying I deserved it because I was actually supposed to be in the Tournament, and I needed it more than he did. I didn’t want it, of course. He did better than I did hands down. But his owl flew away before I could try to put it back.”

Hermione giggled. “That _does_ sound like Hedwig, alright,” she said. “So, if you’re interested, I could come back next weekend to see how you’re doing, and we can start on the spellcasting.”

“I’d like that, Hermione. Thank you.”

“It’s no trouble. What are friends for?”

* * *

Hermione got her subscription to the _Daily Prophet_ , but to her dismay, there wasn’t anything about Harry or Voldemort. There _was_ a fair bit about Dumbledore. Minister Fudge was openly criticising him for “inciting panic” without mentioning what the Headmaster’s claims actually were. Multiple, mostly-anonymous quotes speculated that Dumbledore was either lying or going senile, and an editorial questioned whether he was still fit to hold his governmental positions of Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and Supreme Mugwump of the International Confederation of Wizards.

“It’s positively Orwellian,” she ranted to Mum and Dad. “They have complete control of the press. They’re talking about him like he’s a dissident, and worse, like he’s always been suspect. Just because he’s eccentric—”

“We know, dear,” Mum cut her off. “We don’t have a very high opinion of this Minister Fudge, either, but if he controls the press, there’s not much you can do.”

“I know. I know. But still, people are probably going to be hurt or killed because of this. It’s so infuriating! And then, there’s what they said about Harry—”

“I thought you said they weren’t mentioning Harry,” Dad said.

“They didn’t till today. And even then, I almost missed it. Look. Here, page 3.” She opened up the newspaper to show them. “Three muggle fishermen in a rowboat managed to find themselves thirty feet up a tree after an encounter with the Loch Ness Kelpie, in a tale worthy of Harry Potter.”

“Loch Ness _Kelpie_?” Dad asked.

“Long story. Oh, don’t you see? They’re making Harry out to be a nutter so no one will believe what he says. He hasn’t even said anything except that first night.”

“We’re sorry, Hermione. Sometimes the government is just criminally incompetent,” Mum tried to soothe her. “I’m sure Professor Dumbledore and his group are doing all they can.”

“I hope so.”

Hermione was still in a bad mood that evening when Ron Weasley’s hyperactive little owl, Pigwidgeon, showed up with a letter at her window.

“Oh, hi, Pig,” she said, letting him in. “I hope _you_ have some good news.”

_Hoot!_

“Hmm. Nothing gets _you_ down, does it?”

_Hoot!_

“Well, let’s see what the Weasleys are up to, shall we?”

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_We_ _’re moved in at you know where now. We wish you and Harry could be here with us, but you’ll probably be glad you’re not. It’s_ _ ugly _ _. Take every complaint Ron_ _’s ever made about our house—HEY! Shut up, Ron. Even if it was true, it wouldn’t be as bad as this place. It was abandoned, and now it’s infested with stuff you probably don’t want to know about. The adults are trying to make it more livable._

_We can_ _’t tell you much more because Dumbledore’s worried about owls being intercepted. Of course, they won’t tell us a whole lot anyway. That’s mostly Mum’s doing. We’ll find out what we can, though. Also, we thought you should know that Percy left. We probably shouldn’t talk much about that either, but the short version is Percy’s siding with the Ministry, and he got in a big argument with Dad. It wasn’t pretty. We’ll tell you more when you get here._

_Your friends,_

_Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny_

 

Well, that was just great. It didn’t look like anyone was having a very good summer right now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: There’s…antimony, arsenic, and also aluminium, and hydrogen, and oxygen, and also JK Rowlium…
> 
> Phew. This was harder than I expected. I realised I needed to change some things about the dementor scene at the last minute.
> 
> Please note that I have moved up the dementor attack up one week to put it before Harry’s birthday.

Rita Skeeter, former gossip columnist, had decided to take some time off in the muggle world. Well, she decided about the muggle world part. The time off wasn’t her choice. It was that little twit, Granger, who figured out she was an unregistered animagus and trapped her in a jam jar. Seriously, who carries a jam jar in her robes? But that wasn’t the worst. The worst was that Granger had blackmailed her into not publishing anything for a whole year.

“Little girl’s going to ruin me,” Rita scowled to herself. “I don’t have savings for a year. And of course, _her_ parents are well-off professionals. She even gets to go to school in _France_. Meanwhile, I had to work for everything I got. I had to sleep in the same room as Bellatrix Black for seven years for Pete’s sake. I’m lucky to be alive after that.”

Rita probably looked rather odd, grumbling to herself whilst walking into a muggle public library. Muggles _did_ have their uses. They had libraries _everywhere_ , and some of their books were even useful. That was how she found out about what Granger’s parents did for a living: “dentists”—muggle teeth Healers. Strange, but lucrative.

Also, the cost of living was lower in the muggle world, if you played your cards right.

“Well, if I can’t publish for a year, I can at least research,” she said. “Get something ready for my big return. Maybe even start that biography of Dumbledore I’ve always wanted to write. Ha! As soon as the old man kicks the bucket and can’t fight back, I’ll be rolling in it.”

But Rita’s project today was a little more mundane. Something Granger said had been bugging her—no pun intended—for the past week, and she needed a muggle library to understand it.

 _Now,_ she thought to herself, _what on earth do the words_ _“human rights violation” mean? I mean, it’s obvious what they mean, but why do the muggles think Azkaban is one, and why do they care so much about it?_

* * *

_Nastily Exhausting Wizarding                  Test Results_

**_Pass Grades                                           Fail Grades_ **

_Outstanding (O)                                      Poor (P)_

_Exceeds Expectations (E)                        Dreadful (D)_

_Acceptable (A)                                        Troll (T)_

**_Hermione Jean Granger has achieved:_ **

_Arithmancy                                             O*_

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_I was most impressed one year ago when you achieved the highest recorded score on the current O.W.L. examination in Arithmancy. I was pleased to see that you maintained this high standard after studying just one year for this exam. You have achieved the highest score ever on the current version of the NEWT exam that was instituted in 1950. I congratulate you again on your stellar performance._

_I also wish to give you early notice of a rare opportunity. The Arithmancy exams (along with the rest of the O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. exams) are set to be revised during the 1998-1999 school year, to be implemented in the spring of 2000. Normally, top experts who are active in the field of each subject are invited to contribute to the revisions to ensure that students are tested on the skills they will need to succeed outside of school. Given your scores, you would certainly be qualified to help revise the O.W.L. exam and probably the N.E.W.T. as well, especially if, as I suspect you will, you obtain a Mastery in the subject by that time._

_If you choose to continue living in Britain after your graduation from Beauxbatons, the Wizarding Examination Authority will likely contact you in the summer of 1998 to join the project. You do not need to do anything now, but you may wish to pay particular attention to the arithmancy needs of the community as you continue in your studies in order to have a better understanding going into the project._

_Sincerely,_

_Griselda Marchbanks_

_Governor of the Wizarding Examinations Authority_

* * *

_Dear Harry,_

_We_ _’re all getting settled in here. Sorry, I can’t tell you where here is. Mum’s looking over my shoulder to make sure I don’t tell you anything I shouldn’t. She seems to think my feelings for you might cloud my judgement or something. We’re quite busy here even with most of the family here, and that crazy old dog. Dad’s friends are stopping by a lot, too. Mum says we’ll be able to see you later in the summer, but I can’t really say any more about that. I wish I could tell you everything, but it’ll have to wait till you get here. Just ignore the Prophet, and don’t let the muggles get you down._

_Missing you,_

_Ginny_

* * *

_Dear Ginny_

_Thank you for your letter. It_ _’s good to know I’m not forgotten. I really wish you’d have told me more, but at least you wrote a longer note than Ron, or even Sirius did. Tell your mum hi for me. I heard from Hermione. I guess she won’t be along until later. I hope things aren’t too hard there for you._

_I_ _’d like to know what’s going on with you, but I especially want to know what Voldemort is doing. I’ve been ignoring the Prophet because they aren’t reporting anything. You’d tell me if you knew something, right? It all seems too quiet around here._

_The Dursleys aren_ _’t being any worse than usual, which is good. You’ll never believe what Dudley did, though. He actually lost weight! Apparently he started exercising and took up boxing (muggle duelling). I hate to admit it, but he’s actually good at something. I_ _ really _ _hate to admit it because it makes him an even bigger bully. I_ _’m still faster than him, though._

_Yours truly,_

_Harry_

_P.S. Do me a favour and prank Sirius and Remus for me._

“Hmpf. That boy needs to use a little more discretion,” Molly Weasley said. “He shouldn’t be hinting about who we’re staying with and why.”

“Mum, he’s bored and frustrated,” Ginny said. “He wants to know what’s going on, and no one will tell him. I’d be mad, too. And I’ll thank you not to read my personal mail over my shoulder.”

“You heard what Professor Dumbledore said, Ginerva—”

“Yes, yes, owls can be intercepted, et cetera, et cetera. It’s not like somebody couldn’t figure this stuff out anyway. There wasn’t anything secret.”

“Just be sure it stays that way then,” Molly said.

* * *

A week later, Hermione visited Cedric in the hospital again. He looked better this time. His colour was back, he was wearing normal clothes, and he was sitting in a chair, reading, rather than in the bed. Most notably, though, he now had four limbs again.

“Hermione, good to see you,” he said, rising to his feet as she entered the room. He stumbled slightly and grabbed a cane with his good left hand. His right leg had been severed at the hip, so no matter how good the prosthetic was, it was sure to take some getting used to. Below the cuff of his trousers, she saw a crudely-carved wooden shoe that looked like it was attached to a wooden hydraulic arm and would have to be enchanted in some way. He gave her an awkward half-hug with a fully articulated wooden hand that moved without any visible pulley mechanism.

“Hi, Cedric. I’m glad to see you’re back on your feet,” Hermione said with a smile.

“Well, more or less,” he said, tapping his wooden shoe with his cane. “This thing is supposed to be a lot better than Moody’s, but I’m not seeing it.”

“It is? I would’ve thought he’d have the best that was available.”

“No, from what I hear, Moody uses a muggle prosthetic. He’s too paranoid to get an enchanted one in case someone cancels it in a fight.”

“As opposed to a plain wooden one where someone can just curse it off?” Hermione said.

“Well, no one ever said he was sane,” Cedric replied. “The arm’s no better, either. I can’t write with it any better than my left, but they say that should get better with practice.”

“And of course, you can’t use a wand with it.”

“That too. But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Mm hmm.”

“Thank you for coming. Say, it should be time to get your N.E.W.T. results, shouldn’t it? Didn’t you take the Arithmancy exam?”

“Yes I did,” Hermione said, suppressing her smile.

“And?” Cedric pressed. “How did you do?”

“No how I expected.”

He frowned: “You mean you didn’t get an O?”

“Actually…I did so well they want me to help rewrite the exam standards,” she said with a grin.

Cedric’s jaw dropped. “Rewrite the standards?” he said. “Based on your scores alone? That’s incredible. When are they planning to do it? Can you do it from France?”

“It won’t be till after I graduate, so I’ll be free then, unless Mum and Dad want to move to Australia or something, which might not be a bad idea under present circumstances.”

“Australia?” Hermione’s mum said.

“Hmm…might be worth it considering you’re muggles and all, Mrs. Granger,” Cedric said. “Still, wow, you never do anything halfway, do you?”

“Are you kidding?” Hermione lowered her voice. “I need to step _up_ my game with Voldemort back.” Cedric flinched. “You just _know_ Harry’s going to get tangled up with that again. I’m still going to try to help him however I can.”

He smiled weakly: “You’re a good friend, you know that? I wish there was more we could do for you.”

She shook her head. “I keep telling Harry, just staying alive is enough for me. When you’re being hunted by a madman, there’s only so much else you can do.”

“I hope I can be a better friend to you than that,” Cedric told her with a frown. “And I’d say the same about Harry. I know we haven’t been as close lately as we used to be, but even I could see that almost every time you saw your friends up here for the past year, you were running yourself ragged trying to help Harry with the Tournament. That’s not exactly a healthy friendship, even if it’s necessary.”

“We were both victims of circumstance,” she said. “We still are, in my opinion. So much trouble in his life, especially. But I’m sure that if I ever truly needed something from him, Harry would move heaven and earth to help me. That’s just the way he is…Anyway, we need to get to the lesson.”

“Right. Left-handed casting. So how do we go about this? I’ve never paid much attention to what hand people use. I know it’s not as simple as just switching hands.”

“You’re right. I learnt it from Neville Longbottom. You might want to talk to him when school starts again, but basically, there are some wand movements that transfer straight from one hand to the other, some that mirror, and a few that are completely different. I don’t know if you’ve seen, but they make a left-handed version of _The Standard Book_ —”

“ _The Standard Book of Spells._ Yes, I know. Mum and Dad already bought me the full set. I looked through them, but they assume your left hand is your dominant hand, so it’s a lot harder than they think for me to make the figures.”

“I know. Not only is your right hand dominant, but you’ve been favouring it since you first learnt how to pick up a quill. There’s not a whole lot you can do besides practice a lot at every spell. Wand movements that normally take minutes to learn with your dominant hand may need hours of practice with your non-dominant hand to build up the muscle memory, especially to do them quickly. I learnt a few tricks I can show you, though.”

Hermione made Cedric stand with his wand in his left hand and one of her toy wands in his right hand and made him practice simple wand movement elements like flicks, swishes, jabs, and swirls with both at once, in parallel and mirrored. It was easier to train your hand to move properly when you tied it to the accurate movement of your right hand, or so she said, but it was more challenging for Cedric than it had been for her because he still wasn’t very coordinated with his prosthetic arm. His handwriting, previously quite neat for a boy, was now a near-illegible scrawl even worse than Harry’s.

“We so rarely break down wand movements into individual motions, except in Arithmancy,” she said after they practised for a while, “but it’s easier if you learn the individual movements now and string them together later. I’d recommend focusing on that for this week, and we can work on actual spells next week.”

“I suppose so,” Cedric replied, trying not to be too disappointed with his performance. He had been at the top of his class, but he was pretty sure his marks in his wand-based classes were going to suffer, now, even with intensive practice.

“You’ll do fine, Cedric,” Hermione assured him. “I’ve learnt it well enough that I can do all of the most useful spells left-handed, and that was whilst juggling a lot of other projects. If you put in the hours, you should be able to pick up your classes this autumn without much trouble.”

“Well, thanks, Hermione…” He said. “I still wish I could do more, though. With Voldemort being back, Dumbledore’s going to need the help he can get, even after the Ministry pulls its head out of its arse. Did you see Fudge is lobbying to have him sacked as Chief Warlock?”

“Yes, I did. Ugh. Don’t get me started on Fudge. But still, I’m sure you can find something useful. We’ll need more than just fighters, after all. I mean, look at me. Can you imagine me in a knock-down, drag-out fight with dark wizards?”

“Actually, yes,” Cedric said. “I think you could hold your own.”

Hermione blushed, but before she could respond, her father spoke up: “I think she’ll be avoiding things like that just the same.” Her parents had been quiet through most of the visit, but they had stayed and watched, mostly out of interest for the teaching process, so they were certainly paying attention.

“So then, when you say “step up your game,” what do you mean by that?” Cedric wondered.

Hermione glanced at her parents. Mindful that they would be concerned about what she was considering, she said, “I meant inventing new curses, like I did for Harry with the Tournament. Now that I’ve finished partial differential equations, I can make really powerful ones—things for breaking through shields, incapacitating enemies, or otherwise hindering their spellcasting. I’ll probably send them to one of the Hogwarts professors for the really serious ones, so they can decide what to do with them.” That was mostly true, except that she was still intending her first point of contact to be Harry, and she wasn’t going to be shy about the nastier curses. Even her Teeth-Drilling Hex was probably something her parents would disapprove of—especially the fact that she had used it on Draco Malfoy, Hogwarts’s biggest pureblood bigot. Mum and Dad had always been very clear that dentistry was supposed to help people, not hurt them.

Cedric understood Hermione’s position well enough, but he was unsure what job he could do himself in the coming war. (And he had no illusions that war was coming. He definitely trusted Harry.) Maybe he could be useful brewing potions or going into some other part of the Healing industry. That was sure to be needed. The main other thing that came to mind was going into politics, like his father, but that was worse than useless until the Ministry admitted the truth, not to mention he had little taste for it. He had to do something, though. He hadn’t actually been conscious when You-Know-Who had returned, but he had remembered three hissed words: _Kill the spare._ It was his father more than himself who was offended that he, at the top of his class, was called the “spare,” but just the same, Cedric had a growing urge to show Voldemort just what a spare could do. He’d have to think about his options. Luckily, he had plenty of time to do it. After a little more practice, he thanked the Grangers once more, and they left, leaving him to his thoughts.

* * *

Hermione had invented quite a few useful spells to help Harry survive the Triwizard Tournament last year, but by far her best work had been the spell she had cooked up for the First Task. Being told Harry had to face a nesting mother dragon with just two days’ notice, she had constructed and tested a spell to extract magnesium powder from soil in just twenty-four hours and taught it and the Banishing Charm to Harry in the following twelve, all running on nothing but Pepperup Potion. When Harry walked into the arena, the fight ended with a cloud of magnesium dust exploding in the face of the Hungarian Horntail like a stun grenade, causing the disoriented beast to fall on its, well, tail.

That was naturally impressive and garnered both Harry and Hermione a lot of praise, but Hermione had been fascinated by the possibilities. What other metals could she strip from the soil? It was a complicated prospect. Each element needed its own purification spell, and some of them were infeasible for no other reason than that the spell extracted them in powder form. She didn’t even try for sodium. Honestly, a cloud of powdered sodium metal over damp soil? She didn’t need to burn her eyebrows off again. Fortunately, simple compounds weren’t much harder, and she did manage to pull off a spell to extract sodium chloride.

Other elements were far too rare. Gold was present in soil, and when she got home, she constructed the spell to extract it, but when she tested it in a concealed corner of her backyard, she only got a tiny pinch of the stuff. She did a quick mental calculation and determined that she could strip-mine the entire yard and only get enough for the tiniest of coins, and she thought that would be too conspicuous to try.

The other problem was that the powder form was hard to handle, so over the past school year, she had found ways to melt it down into solid nuggets, although for the most refractory elements, she had to use thermite to do it. (That was what happened to her eyebrows the first time.) And there was one element, tungsten, that even thermite couldn’t touch. She didn’t have a need for it, yet, but she thought it might be useful for ballast or something.

In any case, it was with this and other projects that Hermione busied herself over the summer. She had summer homework, of course, but she finished that quickly. Her goal was to have spells finished for all of the elements before she returned to school, and in the corner of the backyard, she tested them by extracting small amounts of each element to add to her collection.

Overall, she was a lot less busy now than during the school year, but Hermione Granger never really stopped. She bought a book on C and taught herself the basics of computer programming. That would have sounded completely useless for a witch who lived most of the year in a place with no electricity, but there were similar concepts incorporated into Ancient Runes that would allow her to one-up a certain pair of mapmakers she knew. She got hold of a real analysis textbook from a university to continue her maths education. And of course, she started working on new curses. She felt a bit uncomfortable about that last one. Creating really nasty spells didn’t come naturally to her, but she was sure she’d need them.

There were letters, of course, including a couple from her friends in France. But the letters from her closest friends left something to be desired. The Weasleys’ letters were very terse, and Harry’s sounded like he was getting more and more frustrated not knowing what was going on. He also never mentioned the _Daily Prophet_ anymore, which made Hermione think he wasn’t reading it—only checking for news of Voldemort. That was foolish in her opinion. It left him unprepared for what the political state of things would be when he reentered the magical world.

Hermione was getting frustrated too, of course, but she also had a lot more to occupy her time. Harry’s relatives didn’t want any “freakishness’ going on in their house. He didn’t have much besides the letters and his homework, so Hermione made sure to pass along any new information she had about Cedric, the Delacours in France, Neville, and Luna. Sometimes, she even had a tidbit that from the Weasleys that they hadn’t told him. They weren’t as careful writing to her as to Harry directly.

Even Ginny’s letters didn’t give Harry much, if she read between the lines of his, which was a shame. Hermione thought Harry and Ginny were good for each other, but this summer must surely be testing their nascent relationship. As for Hermione, well, it just wasn’t the same without her friends—the same way she had felt most of last year. Even though she loved the quality time with her parents, she still found herself counting down the days until the thirtieth of July, when she would be able to see them again.

* * *

It was the twenty-fourth of July when Harry found himself lying out in the garden listening to the news through the open window. Perhaps something Voldemort did would bleed over into the muggle world and be covered as something strange and inexplicable. He wasn’t supposed to stray from Number Four Privett Drive, where his proximity to his mother’s blood relatives was supposed to protect him in some convoluted magical way he didn’t really understand, but he couldn’t stand to be inside the physical house any more than necessary, and for good reason. The Dursleys resented him, and he resented the Dursleys. And thus, all was normal in his world…well, except for that crack of Apparition he heard earlier that Uncle Vernon had blamed him for.

Harry was expected to do chores while he was with the Dursleys, and he had jumped at the chance to do the gardening. It got him out of the house. The garden was dead, of course. The uncommonly hot and dry summer had worsened into the worst drought in years, and the entire county was on water restriction, but it gave him time to think.

Harry was sure he would’ve gone spare by now if it weren’t for Dobby helping him exchange letters with Hermione. He appreciated Ginny’s as well, of course, and they could even have meaningful relationship-type conversations through them (not that either of them held with the really sappy stuff) but they didn’t include the news he so craved and could only get an inkling of from Hermione. Paradoxically, he had stopped reading the _Prophet_ —only checking the front page to see if Voldemort’s name was on it. He ignored it so successfully that would’ve missed Dumbledore getting demoted from the Wizengamot if Hermione hadn’t told him. He was sacked on the supposed grounds that he was too old to handle the pressure. Harry didn’t understand the importance of that, but Hermione said it was bad.

He was counting down the days until he could rejoin his friends (and give them a piece of his mind). Six days to go, and a birthday party waiting at the other end. That was his great consolation in all this. Even though his godfather, Sirius Black, was giving him the silent treatment as to what he was up to, he was still promising a lavish birthday party.

Actually, come to think of it, he never said “birthday party.” He just said “party.” No one had ever written a definite date when they would come get him except Hermione.

It was annoying.

It was hard, too. In addition to having to put up with the Dursleys, his nightmares had come practically every night this summer, taking him back to that graveyard where Voldemort had come back from the dead—Cedric Diggory nearly being killed by Barty Crouch Jr In Harry’s dreams, sometimes he _was_ killed, and he would wake up in a cold sweat. Sometimes, he would go further back and hear his mother begging for mercy.

“Oi, runt!” Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by a toe jabbing into his ribs. “Quit slackin’ off.”

Dudley. Harry’s large and annoying cousin. Harry really wanted to tell him off. He could think of so many comments, he could make, but he held his tongue. He remembered the one clear command Sirius had given him for the summer: _Keep your nose clean. Be careful, and don_ _’t do anything rash._ In other words, the exact opposite of what Sirius would have done.

“Gardening’s done, Big D,” he said, not bothering to get up.

“What’re you—What did you call me?” Dudley said in surprise.

“I heard your gang calling you that the other day,” Harry said. He sat up partway, keeping his head below the windowsill. “When did you become Big D, anyway?”

“You don’t get to call me that!” Dudley snapped.

Harry scrambled to his feet, one hand resting against his trouser leg where his wand was. He couldn’t use it, though. He already had one black stroke on his record for Dobby’s misguided attempt to save his life three years ago, and he’d be risking expulsion if he used magic now. But he didn’t want to be in a vulnerable position around Dudley.

Over the past year, Dudley had done something that Harry would have said was impossible, even _with_ magic: shown some self-discipline. His cousin who had been throwing fits like a little kid over being put on a diet last summer had not only actually lost weight, started working out, and taken up boxing, but had done well enough at all three of those things to become a regional junior heavyweight champion. Apparently, all those years of beating up on Harry were good practice.

Harry hated to admit it, but the Dursleys were actually fairly talented. Uncle Vernon didn’t get to be a director at a firm by being incompetent. Aunt Petunia was at least a good cook, what little he got to eat of it. There was a reason Vernon and Dudley were so large, and it had started long before Harry could work the stove. And then there was Dudley’s boxing. When the lump actually applied himself, he could be impressive. Well, Harry supposed Petunia and Dudley couldn’t have missed out on _all_ of his mother’s genes.

Dudley didn’t miss where Harry’s hand was going. “Think you’re a big man carrying that thing, don’t you?” he said.

Harry very nearly rose to the bait and drew his wand, but that would have been exceedingly foolish standing right in front of the Dursleys’ front window. Instead, he just smiled and said, “Did I tell you about the time I beat a dragon in a fight with this thing?” That ought to be a trump card against Dudley’s boxing.

Dudley’s foolhardiness was showing, though: “Yeah, you talk tough, Potter. But you’re not so brave at night, are you?”

“What?” Harry said in genuine confusion.

“I heard you _moaning_ last night,” Dudley taunted. _“‘Don’t kill Cedric! Don’t kill Cedric!” Who’s Cedric—your boyfriend?”_

“You shut up about him!” Harry yelled. He _did_ draw his wand then and pointed it at Dudley’s chest.

“Hey! Boy! You put that down—!” Uncle Vernon shouted, rising from his chair and barrelling towards the window.

“Don’t point that thing at me!” Dudley said.

“Cedric fought dark wizards harder than even I could—!” Harry yelled.

“DON’T YOU DARE THREATEN DUDLEY!” Vernon yelled while Petunia screamed wordlessly. Vernon lunged out the window to grab Harry, but Harry jumped away.

“DON’T EVER TALK ABOUT HIM AGAIN!” Harry yelled.

“GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—!”

Suddenly, everything stopped. Vernon fell out of the window. Harry and the Dursleys fell silent as it felt like they’d been doused with icy water, except it wasn’t nearly as pleasant as it should have been in that weather. It was as if someone had flipped a switch from blazing hot and dry in July to freezing rain in November. Even the setting sun seemed to dim as if a veil had been stretched across it.

“Wh-what are you d-doing?” Dudley said in sudden fear. “Stop it!”

“It’s not me.” Harry spun on the spot, scanning the street and the skies.

“Stop that!” Vernon said. He was trying to bellow, but it came out strangled and almost squeaking. “St-stop that right now!”

“Quit it! Wh-what are you d-doing?” Dudley repeated.

“Shut up!” Harry snapped. “I’m trying to find—”

_WHAM!_

Dudley took a swing at the perceived source of the trouble and knocked Harry to the ground, knocking his glasses off and his wand from his hand.

“Damn it, Dudley!” Harry groaned. He fumbled for his glasses in the strangely dim sunlight. Uncle Vernon grabbed at his ankle in a rage, and he kicked him in the face. Now was not the time for subtlety. Dudley took off running.

Harry managed to get his glasses back on and see what was happening, and he nearly fainted in horror. “DUDLEY, NO! YOU’RE RUNNING RIGHT AT THEM!” It didn’t seem possible. He had recognised the feeling of the dementors at once—the cold and the crushing despair—but he never imagined they would be in Little Whinging. It was like it was against some rule for the magical and mundane worlds to mix like that. Yet they were right there on the street and closing fast, two towering, hooded figures dressed in black so dark that they looked like holes in the world. And Dudley, the idiot, was so desperate to get away from Harry that he was running straight into their waiting mouths.

“YOU—BASTARD—FREAK!” Vernon roared, staggering to his feet. Even in his anger, he was shaking like a leaf in fear. He lunged for Harry again, but Harry had grabbed his wand and ran after his cousin. Under the circumstances, it might have been more prudent to not leave the safety of the blood wards and just leave Dudley to his fate, but being Harry Potter, the thought never crossed his mind, and he went to save his cousin on autopilot.

“DUDLEY, STOP! DON’T YOU SEE THEM?” Harry said, but it didn’t look like he did. Maybe muggles couldn’t see them. Dudley collapsed just as Harry reached him. He felt the dementors’ drain increase and went weak at the knees. His stupidity at leaving the wards caught up with him, but he had to push it away. He needed to cast his Patronus while he still could, and hang the consequences.

He stood over Dudley’s prone form, raised his wand to the dementors, and yelled, “ _Expecto Patronum_!”

A silvery wisp of vapour emitted from his wand. The dementors came fast. They were nearly on top of him.

“Crap.” _Concentrate!_ he thought, but his brain was fogging up. _Concentrate!_ They were nearly on top of him, pulling back their hoods. He was so out of practice. Hermione wouldn’t have this problem. She practised all the time.

Hermione. He’d see her again in just a few days. And Ron, Ginny, the Twins, Sirius, and Remus. He held onto the thought like a lifeline. “ _EXPECTO PATRONUM_!”

A blazing silver stag erupted from his wand and bowled over the two dementors, first one, then the other. The cold, dark, and despair vanished almost instantly. They were thrown to the ground from which they swooped away, bat-like, in defeat. The sped off to the north and out of sight.

Harry let out a sigh of relief, although he kept a firm grip on his wand. “Phew. It’s alright, Dudley. They’re gone.”

Dudley was shaking on the ground, nearly catatonic.

“Dudley, get up.”

Dudley didn’t move. Harry turned him over, and he stared up at him with a vacant expression.

“Dudley, come on, I know they didn’t Kiss you.”

“Dammit, boy, just pick him up, and drag him back inside the wards.”

Harry jumped and spun around, but when he saw who it was, his quickly sheathed his wand. “Mrs. Figg?” he said in confusion.

“And don’t put that wand away! What if they come back?”

“What? You’re…you’re a witch?”

“I’m a squib. I’m no good against _those_ things, let me tell you. Now, quick, you need to get back inside. Oh, I’m going to kill that Mundungus Fletcher!”

Harry was getting more confused by the minute, but he did as she said and hefted Dudley up on his shoulder, which was no easy task. The fearless junior heavyweight boxer seemed to have lost all will to move under his own power, and he promptly vomited on the street.

How could this happen? Dementors in Little Whinging? Mrs. Figg, the batty cat lady, was a squib? There was a wizard watching the house? Well, that explained the Apparition he heard earlier, but why didn’t he know about it before?

“WHAT THE DEVIL ARE YOU PLAYING AT?” Uncle Vernon bellowed as Harry dragged his cousin back to the house. Vernon was one his knees, struggling to find his feet. Aunt Petunia was leaning out the window, her face an unnatural grey. “WHAT DID YOU DO TO DUDLEY?”

“Quit your bellyaching, Dursley,” Mrs. Figg cried as she tottered behind him. “The boy just saved the great lump from dementors. Weren’t you watching?”

“Dementors?” Aunt Petunia squeaked.

“What the ruddy hell are dementoids?” Vernon demanded.

“They guard the wizard prison.”

Everyone, even Dudley, even Mrs. Figg, stopped and stared at Petunia. How did _she_ know? Yes, she was Harry’s mum’s sister, but she never paid attention. Harry had asked her about magic before.

“That awful boy told Lily years ago,” she said, to general astonishment.

“That—that silver thing—?” Vernon said, more in confusion now than anger. “That was a—a prison guard?”

“No, that was a Patronus,” Harry grunted in annoyance. “It’s how you fight them. He continued dragging Dudley into the house. Come on, you’ll need chocolate.”

Vernon goggled at the non-sequitur. “Chocolate? I—what d’you think you’re doing? Now see here—”

“Will you shut _up_ , Dursley,” Mrs. Figg said. “Shut your pie hole and listen to someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”

“Figg?” he said in confusion. “You’re—you’re one of _his_ lot?”

Mrs. Figg hissed like one of her cats: “Yes, I’m one of _his_ lot. _He_ just saved your sorry souls, so maybe show some gratitude.”

But Vernon wasn’t having it: “Oh no, I’ve had enough freakishness in my house.” He managed to stagger to his feet and lay a hand on Harry’s shoulder, but Harry spun around at once, and pointed his wand in his face, the tip glowing. He was in no mood for this. He had just been forced to do magic and was sure to be in big trouble. “Uncle Vernon, we just got attacked by soul-sucking demons,” he growled. “They came for me, but they’re not picky. I bet you would’ve made a nice desert for them.”

“You think you can make up such a cockamamie story—”

“Vernon, it’s true.”

Vernon deflated and turned in surprise when Petunia spoke up.

“I saw Harry out there. He was protecting our Dudley. He couldn’t have done all that himself.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up. He couldn’t remember the last time his aunt had called him Harry—in his uncle’s presence, anyway. It seemed like even she could be civil if you gave her a big enough shock.

“There, listen to your wife,” Mrs. Figg said. “At least _someone_ has some sense around there. Let’s move it, boy. I think I could use some chocolate myself.”

Clearly outnumbered, Vernon stumbled into the house automatically, following Harry’s lead for lack of anything better to do. He and Petunia sat in an uneasy silence as they tried to coax Dudley into talking again and listened to a confused explanation of what a dementor was and what Mrs. Figg was doing there. Surprisingly, the chocolate made them feel quite a bit better. It was an odd scene for Number Four Privett Drive. The Dursleys were almost acting pleasant.

And then the first owl flew in the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Soul-sucking demons are no match for JK Rowling.
> 
> I need to make a clarification here because I managed to forget it myself. In this story, Harry already has Sirius’s mirror. Sirius sent it to him in Chapter 68 of The Arithmancer, right after he was chosen for the Triwizard Tournament. To make this fit with the story, I’ve decided that Harry can’t use it to call Sirius at Grimmauld Place because he doesn’t know the Secret yet.

The letter dropped from Hermione’s fingers and fluttered to the floor. Hedwig hadn’t even waited for her to read it before flying off, presumably to deliver more letters to Sirius and the Weasleys.

“Hermione, what’s wrong,” Emma called from the dinner table.

Hermione was shaking. It wasn’t normal for her to even receive mail at this hour, and her reaction made it painfully obvious that something bad had happened.

“Hermione?” Dan said.

“Harry just got attacked by dementors,” she said quietly.

“Oh my God!” her mother gasped. “Is he alright? Did anyone get hurt?”

“He’s alive…But he might be expelled.”

“Expelled?”

“He used magic to defend himself. It should be self-defence, but the Ministry’s out to get him, and—well, I don’t really know how it works—there’s no way it’s legal, but they’re trying anyway. Oh God, oh God—”

“Hermione, calm down.” Emma rose from the table and hugged her. “We’ll figure out what to do.”

Hermione took a deep breath and relaxed in her mother’s arms. “Okay,” she said. “The first thing is to make sure Harry is safe. I don’t know enough about dementors—what they’ll do once they’ve been driven off. I’ve never heard of them being that far outside the Ministry’s control. I don’t know if they’ll try for Harry again or go back where they came from. For that matter, how did they even get to Harry? His house is supposed to be warded.”

“Doesn’t the letter say?”

“Mum, Harry’s not exactly diligent about taking notes. Someone needs to check up on him. He could be in danger again, and the letter says no other wizards have come by.”

“You’ve been sending Dobby to him all summer, haven’t you?” Dan said. “Can’t he do it?”

Hermione hesitated and thought for a moment, but she answered, “Dobby can’t go alone. The last time he got near dementors, he fainted on the spot…He can take someone with him, though. It’s supposed to be only for emergencies, but I think this qualifies.”

“Well, _you_ can’t go,” her father said. “Can he go fetch someone else?”

She shook her head: “Dobby doesn’t know where any other wizards are whom we trust—nor do I. The Weasleys and Dumbledore are under that Fidelius Charm…” She trailed off and bit her lip, trying to decide how best to propose what she really wanted. “You know…I can fight off dementors at least as well as Harry can…”

“No. We’re supposed to be keeping you out of danger,” Emma said firmly.

“I know, Mum. I know. But will you at least let me show you?” She pulled her blood-bound wand from her sock and hoped it was strong enough to cast a spell as powerful as the Patronus. She smiled a little. “I don’t think I’ve shown you this spell, yet… _Expecto Patronum_.”

A ghostly silver otter emerged from her wand, and she giggled as it frolicked around her and then around her parents as if swimming through the air. She could feel its influence as it radiated feelings of peace and joy.

“Wow…” Emma breathed.

“This is how you fight them off?” Dan asked.

“Yes. It acts like…something like a fire-hose to dementors. That’s the closest analogy I can think of. It drives them away almost instantly.”

“It’s beautiful,” Emma said.

“I know. I was just thinking if I cast it—” She smiled again as an idea struck her. “Actually, if I just leave it active, I would be protected from the moment I went in.” Her Patronus floated up alongside her and nodded its head.

Thanks to the Patronus’s influence, her parents were feeling less hostile, although they still didn’t like the idea. “And what do you think you would do when you got there?” her father demanded.

“If there’s trouble, get Harry out immediately. I wouldn’t try to stay and fight if that’s what you’re worried about. If there’s not trouble, talk to Harry and make sure he’s alright.”

“And you can do that?”

“Dobby can. At least, I think he can. Dobby?”

 _Pop!_ “Miss Hermione,” the elf said, “why is you having your Patronus about?”

“It’s complicated. The short version is Harry was attacked by dementors.”

“Eek! Dementors?! We must be helping him!” Dobby squeaked. He made to leave himself.

“Wait, Dobby,” Hermione stopped him. “Harry’s fine for now, but he needs a witch or wizard to check up on him. Can you apparate me directly to his house?”

Dobby eyed Hermione’s parents warily. In truth, he didn’t need their permission. Hermione had used a loophole to quietly transfer his employment contract to her name alone last autumn in case of just this kind of situation, but she didn’t want to tell her mum and dad that.

Emma sighed in exasperation and said, “Answer her question, Dobby.”

“Dobby can, miss, if you is not wanting to harm Harry Potter. Is you wanting to go?”

“That’s what we’re discussing, Dobby,” Dan said, asserting control. “Hermione needs to convince us she can do it safely if she wants to go.”

“Dobby can take me right to Harry, Dad.” _Or at least to where Harry probably is,_ she added mentally. “I’ll already have my Partonus active. If there’s danger, we’d grab Harry and come straight back. I’d only be gone a few seconds. If there’s no danger, we don’t have a problem in the first place.” She saw Dobby give her a small nod. He recognised that even though she was posing it as a hypothetical, she was actually giving him orders. “Then, I could talk to him and figure out what was happening.”

Her parents leaned closer together and whispered to each other for a minute. “And this otter thing will fight the dementors off if they’re there?” Emma said.

Hermione’s Patronus zoomed over to her side, where it reared back on its hind legs and puffed its chest out impressively. She giggled again: “Yes. It worked long enough last time, and that was in much worse circumstances when I was a lot less experienced.”

“And how will we know you’re okay?” asked Dan.

Hermione considered her options, counting off apparitions. She needed to limit how many times Dobby apparated at a stretch. “I can send Dobby back to let you know,” she said. “But he’ll need to rest before he comes back unless I call him.” A couple years ago, her closest elf friend at Hogwarts, Sonya, collapsed from exhaustion after being forced to apparate seven times in the space of a few minutes, and that was without carrying anyone with her, so she couldn’t risk pushing Dobby too hard.

Her parents whispered to each other some more. It looked like it was getting pretty heated, and Hermione wasn’t even sure who was on which side, but finally, they reached a decision. “Alright, then,” Emma said. “I think we can trust you after the past year that you can make a good plan. But if there’s any trouble, we’ll be rethinking that.”

“Thank you, Mum. Thank you, Dad,” Hermione said, hugging them both. “I just couldn’t stand the thought of throwing Harry to the wolves like that.”

“Fine. Dobby, you have our permission to do what Hermione just planned,” Dan said.

“Yes, Mr. Granger, sir,” the elf said.

“Come on, Dobby.” Hermione’s Patronus draped itself across her shoulders, and she took Dobby’s hand.

* * *

Harry Potter lay on his bed, waiting as patiently as he could. He had sent Hedwig off with his letters half an hour ago, so it was too soon to expect a reply. There probably wouldn’t be anything till tomorrow morning, he thought. He felt guilty that he had been short with his own owl, but he was sick of trying to get by with what little information Hermione could glean about what was going on. Even Ginny wasn’t telling him much, although her letters were considerate, and she made an effort to keep up a conversation through them.

He had tried contacting Sirius multiple times. His godfather had given him a communication mirror that linked to one of his own so that they could talk without being overheard. _That_ certainly couldn’t be intercepted. But unfortunately, every time he tried it this summer, all it would produce was vague shapes and muffled sounds. That had alarmed him at first, but Sirius had assured him he was fine and, although it took a while to get a straight answer, Harry eventually learnt that the Fidelius Charm wasn’t letting him look through the mirror to wherever Sirius was.

Hence, he was stuck with letters. He had expected, perhaps given a little more time, to hear the soft _Pop!_ of a house elf apparating into his bedroom. What he did not expect was for a tall, curly-haired witch with a glowing, silver otter on her shoulders to appear with him.

“AHHH—! Hermione?” Harry said in confusion, falling off the bed with a thud.

Hermione spun around once, surveying the room for threats, before she turned to her friend. “Harry, thank God.” She grabbed him and hugged him. “Are you alright?”

“Hermione, what’re you—Hermione you can’t have that out!” he hissed, pointed at her Patronus. “I’ve already got a hearing for using magic!”

“It’s alright.” She held up her wand. “This is a blood-bound wand. It reads as accidental magic.”

“It what—”

There was a pounding on the door. “Boy, what’re you doing in there?” a loud voice called.

“Shh!” Harry whispered. “I’m sorry, Uncle Vernon,” he called back. “I…just tripped.”

“Well, don’t let it happen again!” Footsteps stomped back down the stairs.

“Was that your uncle?” Hermione said. She had never met Harry’s muggle relatives, but she knew them well enough by reputation. If she ever got free reign to work her magic on them, it would not be pleasant.

“Yeah. And keep quiet. He can’t know you’re here,” Harry whispered. “If he finds a girl in my room, he’ll throw a shotgun wedding—without the wedding.” Hermione’s eyes bugged out a little. “What was that about the wand?” he said.

She looked down at her wand. “It’s blood-bound,” she repeated. “The Ministry thinks it’s accidental magic. I’ve been using it all summer, and I haven’t got a letter.”

“Really?” Harry said in awe. “Er…can you make me one?”

“Not with what I have here, sorry. This took a lot of work. I had to find just the right wood.” She examined the wand more closely. Was it just her, or was it getting blackened around the tip? “Harry, you said you were attacked by dementors! What happened?” she whispered.

“What? _That_ _’s_ why you’re here?”

“Yes! I had to make sure my best friend was alright. What were dementors doing in Surrey?”

“I don’t know.” Harry sighed. “Alright, sit down.” He took a seat on a bed that really wasn’t fit for human use while Hermione took the desk chair.

“Dobby, tell Mum and Dad it’s safe now,” she said.

“Yes, miss,” he said and popped away.

Harry explained how the dementors had shown up out of nowhere, how Dudley had slugged him and run straight at them, and how he ran after and fended them off with his Patronus.

“That was really good of you to save him even after he did that,” Hermione said.

“Well, even Dudley doesn’t deserve that,” he admitted.

Hermione agreed on general principle. She hated dementors a lot more than the Dursleys. “So you don’t know if they can get through the wards?” she asked.

“No, they didn’t come that close. The letters make it sound like I’m safe if I stay in the house.”

“Letters? You got letters already?”

“Yeah, owls were coming all evening. Uncle Vernon was swearing like a sailor by the end of it. There, take a look.”

Harry pointed to a stack of four letters on the desk. Hermione picked them up and read the first one. It was a notice from the Ministry informing him that he’d been expelled, and Aurors were coming to snap his wand. “They can’t do that!” Hermione hissed indignantly. “They have to hold a trial! And I’m sure there’s a provision in the law for self-defence.”

“Yeah, well, just keep reading,” Harry said.

The second letter was from Arthur Weasley, of all people. He said that Dumbledore was trying to sort things out at the Ministry, and then, in big letters, _DO NOT LEAVE YOUR AUNT AND UNCLE_ _’S HOUSE. DO NOT DO ANY MORE MAGIC. DO NOT SURRENDER YOUR WAND._

“Well, that’s not very helpful. What do you do if the Aurors show up?”

“I wasn’t sure at first. But when I thought it over, I figured if Dumbledore hadn’t sorted it out, I’d be screwed anyway, so it wouldn’t matter. At least he took care of that.”

Hermione kept reading. Sure enough, the third letter was another one from the Ministry, saying Harry could keep his wand until a disciplinary hearing on the twelfth. “Well, that’s not so bad,” she muttered. “That’s probably by the book.” The final letter was a very short note from Sirius again telling Harry not to leave the house. “That’s it?” she said. “I have half a mind to take you to my house, except I don’t know how the dementors found you. Do they have your address on file, or is it the Trace?” That pesky Trace again…

Harry shrugged. “There was a fifth letter,” he said, “but it was a Howler.”

Hermione’s eyes widened.

“For Aunt Petunia.”

“What?! Who was it _from_?”

“I don’t know. It was too short to hear it clearly.”

“Well…what did it say?”

“‘Remember my last, Petunia.’” That’s all. I don’t know what it means, but it’s the only thing that kept them from kicking me out of the house.”

“But who would be writing your aunt? Did she know any other witches and wizards besides your mum?”

“I didn’t think so. I thought I’d gone round the twist when she said she knew what a dementor was. But it’s not like anyone ever tells me anything. Honestly, I nearly get killed _again_ , and they’re treating me like a naughty child—”

“Harry…” Hermione got up and gave him another hug. Her Patronus climbed around to rest on his shoulders. (Was it just her, or was it flickering a little?) “You did well,” she whispered. “Remember what Professor Lupin said? Most wizards can’t even _cast_ a Patronus.

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said. “It’s not like anyone else would say it. And you know something else? I found out Dumbledore’s got people watching me.”

“What?!” Hermione looked around the room warily.

“Outside. I never knew. They’ve been invisible the whole time. It turns out my old babysitter, Mrs. Figg, is a squib. She told me.”

“But the dementors—”

“The guy who was supposed to be on duty when they came was some flake who ran off to buy some black market cauldrons.”

“What? Why would Dumbledore hire someone like that?”

“No idea. Mrs. Figg wouldn’t tell me anything else.”

“Well, someone needs to—”

Suddenly, there was a crack and a sizzle, and Hermione’s Patronus winked out.

“AH!” she yelped, and she looked down at her wand. It was cracked down the middle and charred along its full length. “My wand burnt out!” she complained.

“Your wand?” Harry said worriedly. “But it wasn’t your real wand, right?”

“No, but it was supposed to be tougher than that…I’m sorry; I have to go, Harry. I don’t want to go out without a working wand.”

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“You’re sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll be fine. I’m just waiting for the others to write back. Go ahead.”

“Alright. I’ll see you soon, I hope.” She hugged Harry one more time and called for Dobby.

 _Pop!_ “Yes, Miss Hermione?”

“I need to go home, now. Goodbye, Harry.”

She took Dobby’s hand, felt squeezed through a tube again, and landed in a heap in her living room. Her mum and dad rushed to help her up.

“Hermione, you’re back,” Mum said. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, Harry’s fine, except they won’t really tell him what’s going on.”

“Where’s your otter-thing?” Dad asked.

“It failed. My homemade wand burnt out.”

“It did? I thought you said it would last all summer.”

“I thought it would, but the Patronus is a powerful spell. Maybe because it’s emotionally-driven. I guess that can make its effects stronger, just like damage from dark magic is harder to repair. It must have been too much strain on the wand.” That was enough. If she couldn’t make a reliable backup wand, she’d have to buy one.

“So what’s going to happen now?” Dad asked.

“I’m not sure yet. We’ll just have to wait.”

* * *

It was nearly lunchtime the next morning when Hermione heard a mad twittering outside her window. She looked up, and instead of Hedwig, as she expected to see, Pigwidgeon trying to get in. She opened the window and, with difficulty, got Pig to sit still long enough to take his letter. To her surprise, it was from the Twins, and it made no sense at first, but then, she saw the connection.

 

_Chin up, Hermione. We know things look bad, but plans are afoot. You should be able to come over soon. Just remember our motto._

_Gred and Forge_

 

The Twins’ motto was one she knew well. She grabbed one of her non-destroyed toy wands, touched the tip to the note and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” At once, a longer letter appeared, but this one was in Ginny’s handwriting:

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_I need your help. Dumbledore came by last night, and he told us not to write to Harry at all until he got here. He said we shouldn_ _’t let Hedwig out at all because she’s too easy to recognise. I wanted to send him a note with Pig just to tell him why I can’t talk right now, but Mum won’t even let me do that. I told her Harry would hate me if I didn’t write him after he was attacked by dementors, but she wouldn’t listen. She said we have to do it to keep him safe, but you know how Harry is. He’ll think I don’t care about him anymore if I don’t write him now._

_I had to get Fred and George to hide this letter so it wouldn_ _’t look like I was giving you any information to pass along to Harry. They said you would know how to open it. I know you have some way to communicate with Harry—you have a muggle tellyfone or something like that. Please, can you send him a message telling him what’s going on? I don’t want to lose him over this._

_Dumbledore said they_ _’re going to bring Harry here Thursday night. We (Fred, George, Ron, and me) think they should do it sooner, but he said they need time to make arrangements to get him here safely. I think you should come as soon as possible. We’ll ask Sirius and Remus to help arrange it if you want to. It’ll probably be simpler if you’re settled in by the time Harry gets here._

_Your friend,_

_Ginny_

Sometimes, Hermione wondered if adults could really be that thick. She knew full well that Harry hotheaded and suffered from low self-esteem, just as Ginny described. She might have said he needed to work on his temper, but he _was_ a fifteen-year-old boy, after all. She tapped her wand to the note again and said, “Mischief managed.” Ginny’s letter disappeared, leaving only Fred’s and George’s short message. She thought for a minute and wrote what she hoped would be an appropriate reply below it that would get the message across in a way Mrs. Weasley wouldn’t catch:

 

_Thanks for the note. I_ _’d like to come as soon as possible._

_Mischief managed,_

_Hermione_

 

She sent Pig back with that letter and sat down to compose a letter to Harry. That took some time. Then, to her surprise, just after lunch, Pig returned with another note, this one in Remus’s handwriting:

 

_Be at King_ _’s Cross at 10 o’clock tomorrow morning. Be packed for school—R._

Tomorrow morning. That didn’t give her much time. And she quickly realised there was something else she needed to do before she left.

“Mum, Dad,” she said. “I need to make a change of plans.”

* * *

It was a little ironic, Hermione thought, that she was taking the Knight Bus to Ottery St. Catchpole, where the Weasleys normally lived, when they weren’t actually around. Instead, she was headed to the Diggorys’ house. Cedric was home from the hospital, but he was still doing physical therapy to get used to his prosthetic limbs. He met her out front when she arrived. He still walked with a limp that probably wasn’t going to go away, but he no longer needed a cane—most of the time.

“Have I mentioned I hate the Knight Bus?” Hermione asked as it deposited her, dizzy and shaken, in front of the Diggorys’ manor.

“I did get that impression,” Cedric said. He offered her a hand to help her inside.

The Diggorys’ lived in a small manor at the outskirts of the village. Hermione had come here a couple of times this summer to help Cedric with his left-handed casting. It was a nice house, very proper, with a house elf and everything, though not as homely as she was used to.

“I wanted to come one more time because I may be unreachable for the rest of the summer,” she explained to Cedric and his parents. “Harry was attacked by dementors yesterday—”

“Dementors?!” Cedric gasped. “Where? How?”

“At his relatives’ home in Surrey, and we have no idea. He fought them off with his Patronus, but now he has to have a hearing for underage magic. Anyway, Sirius is moving him to a more secure location, and I wanted to spend part of the summer with him anyway, so I’ll be going there until school starts.”

“Do you think You-Know-Who was involved?” Mr. Diggory said seriously.

“We don’t know. It seems like an odd move, considering he’s been lying low, but I don’t know much about Azkaban. I’m not sure how two dementors could get away from there on their own in the first place.”

“They shouldn’t be able to,” Mr. Diggory told her. “The Ministry keeps very close tabs on them.”

 _And were they keeping close tabs when those demons tried to Kiss me a year ago?_ she thought. The philosophical idea of a soul-eating monster alone had been enough to send her into a nervous breakdown in her third year—although, granted, she had a lot of other trouble going on then, too. The actual incident at the end of the year had been what prompted her parents to make her switch schools, and she’d actually agreed with them.

“Anyway, I’m not sure whether I’ll be able to write. There’s been some issues with getting letters in and out of there. So I wanted to come by in person one more time.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Hermione,” Mrs. Diggory said. “We appreciate it.”

“Do you think we could go over a few spells while you’re here?” Cedric asked. “I’ve been having trouble with some of the non-mirrored figures.”

“Of course,” Hermione said.

They practised wand motions for about an hour. Cedric was making admirable progress considering he had six years of spells to relearn and had to drill each one to perfection to make it work. He had it a lot harder than Hermione did, having so little time to do it, and he probably wouldn’t ever be up to the standards that had helped him draw with Harry in the Triwizard Tournament, but she thought he would be able to make it through his classes.

“Cedric,” she asked after a while, “if you don’t mind my asking, whatever happened with Cho?” She hadn’t broached the subject of his girlfriend in any of their prior sessions, but she hadn’t forgot the older girl’s tearful reaction.

Cedric sighed heavily. “I don’t know,” he said. “She hasn’t ended it or anything, but…well, she’s been keeping her distance. I think part of her still likes me, but she…sees me as damaged goods, I guess. Like she can’t bear to be with a cripple—”

“You’re not crippled, Cedric,” Hermione protested. “And you’re not damaged.”

“You can’t deny my prospects aren’t as good as they were before because of this.” He held up his wooden arm.

“That depends what you want to do.”

“Sure. Anyway, I’d like to patch things up with her, but she has trouble carrying on a conversation anytime she’s near me. Cho’s a really emotional sort.”

 _Yeah, I kind of noticed._ Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to say to that. Finally, she settled on, “Are you…are you okay with that—her being so emotional?”

“I don’t mind most of the time. I can be her support if she’ll let me. It’s just that she’s having such a breakdown this summer.”

“It’s not over, though. You know things are going to get worse before it gets better, don’t you?”

Cedric’s face darkened: “Yeah. I’ve thought about it. I’ll be honest; I’m not sure what a real war will do to her. But I can’t let her go without talking it out properly. That’s not fair to either of us.”

 _Patient, loyal Hufflepuff through and through_ , Hermione though. “Well, if she stops long enough to pay attention, she’ll see how lucky she is.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said.

“I mean it. Any girl would be lucky to have you.”

He stopped and stared at her. “Hermione…?”

She blushed furiously. “Sorry, I just…” she started. “Sorry, I couldn’t help myself there…er, you know…I actually hoped you would ask me to the Yule Ball last year,” she blurted. “Don’t get me wrong; I was really happy I went with George but…” _Just shut up!_ she chided herself.

But Cedric gave her a sort of half-smile. “I kind of wondered if you did,” he said, “but I was already seeing Cho by then, so…”

“No, I understand,” she babbled. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t think I was just being polite.”

“I knew you weren’t,” he said. “You’re too honest for that. And for what it’s worth, I think George is a lucky guy.”

Hermione winced.

“Trouble?” he said with a frown.

“Er, my love life isn’t doing any better than yours right now. George and I agreed that we wouldn’t date while we’re stuck at different schools.”

“Oh. Sorry. There’s no one else, then?”

“I tried going out with a boy named Michel at Beauxbatons for a little while, but I scared him away when I burnt my eyebrows off.”

“You burnt your eyebrows off?!”

“I underestimated the power of thermite,” she said indignantly. “It’s an easy mistake to make.”

“And that scared him off?”

“Some boys are intimidated by strong women…Fred and George were just disappointed they didn’t get to join in.”

Cedric laughed. “Hermione, trust me when I say any boy would be lucky to have you. I hope you can find one who appreciates you properly.”

She blushed even more furiously than before. “Th-thanks, Cedric,” she stammered, “and I hope you can work things out with Cho.” It would be more accurate to say she hoped Cho could be good enough for him, but she didn’t say it.

She took her leave then, but before she went home, she decided to make one more stop in the village. Over a nearby ridge stood a house that looked like a giant chess piece where Luna Lovegood lived with her father.

“Oh, hello, Hermione,” Luna said at the door. “It’s good to see you. Please come in.”

Luna was a Ravenclaw in Ginny’s year. She had waist-length blond hair, piercing silver eyes, and Hermione was pretty sure she had an undiagnosed mental illness, but she was a very sweet girl who needed all the friends she could get.

“Hi, Luna,” Hermione said. “I just wanted to visit. It’s too bad we haven’t had a chance to hang out for the past year.”

“Oh, I understand, Hermione,” Luna said in her usual serene voice. “You were busy helping Harry. Also, when the Rotfang Conspiracy targets you, it’s probably safer to get away from them.”

“I—er—the _what_ conspiracy?”

“The Rotfang Conspiracy,” she said very seriously. “They’re trying to take over the Ministry of Magic with dark magic and gum disease. They obviously thought you were a threat with your arithmancy skills, so they arranged for you to be transferred out of the country.”

The wheels in Hermione’s mind spun for a minute before they found traction. “Luna, my _parents_ transferred me to Beauxbatons. My _muggle_ parents.”

“Yes, but that only was because you were attacked by dementors, wasn’t it?”

“Well, yes.”

“Rotfangs,” she said, as if that explained everything.

Hermione liked Luna, but she could only handle her in small doses. Luckily, Ginny had a higher tolerance. “You had a nice time at Hogwarts, though?” Hermione asked. Luna had been bullied and pretty much friendless in her first year. Ginny was sort of her friend, but she’d been possessed by Voldemort that year.

“Mm hmm. It was pleasant enough. Ginny and her brothers were nice to me, and so were Harry and Neville. Did you enjoy Beauxbatons?”

“It was alright. The Potions and History teachers were much better than Professors Snape and Binns, but I thought a lot of the others weren’t quite as good. But I made friends and had fun—and the weather’s a lot better.”

“I imagine so. I considered going to Beauxbatons myself, you know, but I wouldn’t want to leave Hogwarts now. It’s nice to have friends there, even if one of them is away.”

“Well, I’m glad you’ve settled in well, at least.”

“What will you do now that you have your N.E.W.T. in Arithmancy?”

“I’ll talk to Monsieur Oppenord and keep writing Septima and start working on a Mastery. I have a feeling I’ll be mostly on my own, but I can manage it.”

“That sounds very exciting. I’m eager to see how my O.W.L. year goes in Ancient Runes.” Luna had tested into that class a year early. “Once I get that far, I should be able to write my own puzzled for the magazine.” Luna’s father ran a tabloid magazine called _The Quibbler_ , which in Hermione’s opinion ranked a notch below _The Daily Mirror_ in terms of accuracy, between the conspiracy theories and the tales of imaginary creatures. She wouldn’t say that in front of Luna though. That was the one thing that would make the little blond truly angry.

Mr. Lovegood was also eager to see Hermione that day, but for a different reason. “Miss Granger, I wonder if you might be willing to try out my recreation of Ravenclaw’s Diadem again,” he asked. “I’ve made some improvements since the last time you were here.”

“I suppose I can, Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione said. According to Mr. Lovegood, legend held that Ravenclaw’s Lost Diadem unlocked the power of the subconscious mind and could turn anyone into a mathematical savant—a skill that Hermione spent years in primary school to perfect. The theory was a reasonble one (surprisingly so, for the Lovegoods), although she wasn’t sure about the application.

Mr. Lovegood placed a strange helmet with things that looked like ear trumpets on her head, saying, “I tried adding a billywig propeller to induce an elevated frame of mind. And of course some new charms. I even recreated a few of them from Pandora’s old notes. How do you feel?”

“I feel…” And Hermione blinked. She looked around, and she started seeing numbers everywhere—not the way she usually did. She saw Luna’s bleach-blond hair, and the number 510 came to her unbidden. She looked in the dark shadows in the corners and saw 63. The orange of Luna’s earrings was 480. The blue of the sky outside was 239. The numbers seems to have no rhyme or reason. She closed her eyes and started to compute, only to receive another shock. She saw flashes of colour—not bright flashes—but waves of colour associated with the numbers—colours that seemed to fit naturally with the arithmetic.

She realised what was happening to her and ripped the helmet off her head. She paused. Everything seemed back to normal. She put it back on her head. The strange colours returned.

“Now _that_. Is. Weird,” she said.

“It’s doing something, isn’t it?” Mr. Lovegood said smugly.

“It seems that you’ve created a helmet that induces synesthesia, Mr. Lovegood.”

“Synesthesia? What’s that?”

“When the senses interfere with one another. Numbers have colours, and colours are numbers.”

“Really?” Mr. Lovegood said, eagerly scribbling down notes. “That’s not what I experienced. When I wore the helmet, colours had distinct smells. For example, the colour of grass smelled like gurdyroot.”

“And when I saw colours, I heard musical notes,” Luna added.

That was even weirder. It had different effects for different people?

“What kinds of numbers are you sensing, Miss Granger?” Mr. Lovegood asked.

“Er, two and three digit…” she said. She tried to think of some examples, and before long, she saw the pattern. “Of course, it’s a nine-bit colour-map.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a muggle technique. Each colour is assigned a number from zero to 511 based on its red, green, and blue content on a scale from zero to seven.” Of _course_ that’s how her subconscious mind would process colour, she thought.

“How fascinating. And are you feeling more elevated in mind? More creative? A sudden desire to paint, perhaps?”

“Um, well…” Hermione didn’t feel any different except that her senses were cross-wired. Although…she did think that the colours seemed more vibrant. In fact, now that she looked closer, she could distinguish shades with exquisite precision. She could tell at a glance exactly which shade of off-white the walls were when she would have been left guessing before. It was probably because before, she only had a few dozen names for colours, and now, she had 512, all of them defined with mathematical precision. “I think my colour perception has improved,” she admitted.

“Aha! Now that’s _exactly_ the kind of effect I’m looking for.”

Hermione wasn’t convinced of that, but she let him have his moment. It _was_ a very interesting effect. If there was a scholarly journal for Healers, it would be worth writing up a paper. But she didn’t think it was the claimed power of Ravenclaw’s diadem. If synesthesia was the best Mr. Lovegood could do, his helmet would do little more than drive the wearer mad.

But who knew? Maybe he’d get lucky again. Mr. Lovegood kept asking her a number of colour- and maths-related questions and even had her try drawing, but she eventually concluded that the helmet hadn’t improved her natural talents, only her colour perception. It wouldn’t do her much good unless she became an interior decorator.

* * *

The next morning, Hermione packed up to go. She planned to come home once more immediately before school started, but she packed as if she was going straight there, just in case. She had to think about which books to take. She had a university textbook on electromagnetism, for example, because she had had great success creating laser-based charms (a greatly under-appreciated invention in her opinion). Of course, she had several maths books as well. But there was one more idea that struck her. With her parents’ being dentists, they had a lot of medical books lying around. Mum had started in medical school before switching to dental school, so she had even more.

Hermione had already created a Teeth-Drilling Hex, but with Voldemort and his Death Eaters on the move again, she knew she would need something more powerful to make a valuable contribution to the war effort. A lot of curses interfered with the body’s functioning in one way or another, so perhaps there was something useful in those books. Creating those kinds of spells didn’t come naturally to her (which was a good thing in general, she was sure), so she could use some inspiration.

She hoped her mum wouldn’t miss her old pathophysiology textbook.

Hermione and her parents made their way to Platform Nine at King’s Cross, but they weren’t sure what to do after that.

“Hermione?”

She spun around, her hand on her wand. Merlin, she was getting jumpy. “Professor Lupin?” she said.

“I’m not your professor anymore. It’s just Remus.” Harry’s honorary uncle, Remus Lupin, stood before her, along with a heavily-scarred old man with a magical blue eye.

“Hello, Remus,” she said, “and Pro—er, Auror Moody…Are you sure he’s the real Alastor Moody?” she said half-seriously. Moody had been impersonated by a Death Eater all last year, after all.

Moody stomped closer on his wooden leg and stared at her with his magic eye. “And how do _we_ know you’re the real Hermione Granger?” he growled. “ _We_ _’re_ the ones who have to worry about keeping a Fidelius Charm safe.”

Hermione tried not to shiver under his gaze. She knew he could see through walls and the back of his own head with that eye of his. She took a deep breath and said, “The long line is the Cartesian product of the first uncountable ordinal and the half-open interval from zero to one, reflected through the origin. If the continuum hypothesis is correct, then it is equivalent to the line defined by constructing a line segment of length one on every real point of the number line and laying them end to end.”

Remus laughed: “It’s alright, Alastor. That’s her.”

“Hmm,” Moody grunted. He looked her up and down again. “And do you want to explain why you’re carrying three wands?”

“Two of them are toy wands,” she said. “Rubbish quality, but a little backup is better than none.”

He smiled a little. “Good thinking kid, but you’ll want something more reliable—”

“Wait a minute!” Dan yelled as he made the connection. “You can see through her clothes?” He jumped in front of Hermione to shield her from his gaze.

“Dad, don’t,” she whispered.

But Moody shook his head and pointed to his eye. “It spots magical objects,” he said.

“But you—” Hermione started, but his eye swivelled around to point at her in warning. “Oh, right. Yes, I see how that works,” she lied.

“Oh…Sorry,” Dan said, pulling back.

“It’s about a twenty-minute walk from here,” Remus said, reasserting control. “The location’s secret, so we’d prefer that you split up here. We’ll arrange to meet you here again when Hermione goes home.”

Hermione’s mum and dad would have preferred to go with her, but they accepted the arrangement. She quickly hugged them and said her goodbyes. “I’ll see you in a few weeks, she assured them.”

“Have fun, Hermione. And stay safe,” Dad said. “We can pick you up anytime if you need it.”

Dan and Emma went back to the car while Hermione started down the street with the two wizards.

“You lied,” she whispered to Moody. Harry had told her that the fake Moody had looked through his robes once with that eye to see his perfectly mundane socks.

“Of course I did,” he growled. “I didn’t want to deal with an angry father in the middle of the train station.”

“So you really can see through clothes?”

“Not skin-tight ones,” he assured her. “There needs to be some space to see into. And it _does_ also see magical objects.”

“So you can just see everyone in their underwear, then?” she said testily.

“So? It’s not different from a swimsuit these days, is it? People always get so hung up on one, but not the other.”

Hermione almost made another cutting remark, but she held her tongue. No, she supposed he _wouldn_ _’t_ see a difference about that after seeing it every day for so many years. But at least she could rest assured he couldn’t see her naked.

Assuming he wasn’t lying about that, too.

_Dammit, why does he make me so paranoid?_

* * *

About twenty minutes later, they came to a row of large houses five stories high. Nothing looked particularly magical about them, and she didn’t see anything unusual, but with a Fidelius Charm, she knew she wouldn’t.

“We need to let you in on the secret,” Remus explained. “Dumbledore wrote it down specifically for this purpose.”

“Dobby will need to know, too,” she pointed out.

“Dobby?” Moody said.

“My elf. My parents will want him to be able to find me.”

Moody turned towards her and raised his wand: “And just how does a muggle-born have a house elf?”

“He’s a free elf,” Remus said. “She hired him. I’ll vouch for him.”

“Hmpf. Alright, then. Call him,” Moody said grudgingly.

“Dobby?”

_Pop!_

“Yes, Miss Hermione.”

“Dobby, this is Auror Moody—the real one.”

“You serve this witch, elf?” Moody demanded. Hermione bristled at Dobby being spoken to that way, but she again held her tongue.

“Yes, Auror Moody, sir. Dobby has a very good contract with Miss Hermione Granger.”

“Alright then.” Moody withdrew a slip of parchment from his robes and handed it to Hermione. “Both of you read quickly and memorise.”

They read the note in Dumbledore’s curly script:

 

_The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London._

 

As soon as she had read the message, Moody set fire to the parchment. _Order of the Phoenix?_ she thought. _It_ _’s a little obvious_. Dumbledore was the only person in Britain who had a phoenix—she was pretty sure. Apparently, he had a soft spot for symbolism, too. (Harry had described Voldemort’s obsessions.) The most ironic thing was that Voldemort’s wand actually had a phoenix-feather core—from the same phoenix as Harry’s wand, a fact that had saved Harry’s life. And that phoenix happened to be Dumbledore’s.

Something very weird was going on with that.

Hermione looked up, and to her surprise, another house appeared out of nothing, in between Number Eleven and Number Thirteen. It expanded in the gap and seemed to push the others out of the way. Nothing looked wrong about the geometry. It looked just as natural for the house to be there as it had a moment ago for it not to be there. Of course, non-Euclidean geometry was nothing to wizards (which was, odd, she thought, because the field hadn’t been invented until the 1800s), so it shouldn’t surprise her.

“Hurry up,” Moody said. “Don’t want to be loitering on the street.”

“Dobby, you may go home,” Hermione said as they approached the front step. He vanished by the time she was inside.

“Don’t go far inside, and don’t touch anything,” Remus said.

“Is there something wrong in here?” she asked.

“Let’s just say we’re still cleaning.”

Hermione proceeded into the darkened front hallway. It looked abandoned. The wallpaper was peeling, the carpet threadbare, the chandelier—carved like serpents—covered in cobwebs. It didn’t look like a pleasant place.

“Maybe I should’ve had Dobby come in with me,” she muttered.

There was a bustle of footsteps, and Mrs. Weasley rushed into the hall. “Oh, Hermione, dear. It’s so good to see you,” she said. She was oddly quiet, as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “How has your summer been? Let’s get you out of here before you wake something up.”

“Wake something up?”

“Nasty place. Not fit to live in. But we don’t have much choice…” Mrs. Weasley didn’t look well. She looked a lot like Hermione had felt several times in the past four years. The stress was getting to her. “Ron, Ginny, and the Twins are upstairs. Go ahead and see them—second floor and on the right. Lunch will be in an hour in the basement.”

“Um, sure, Mrs. Weasley. Thank you.” She climbed the stairs with her trunk and upon reaching the second landing was waylaid by a bright red streak.

“Hermione! _Finally_!” Ginny cried. “Oi, boys, Hermione’s here!” She lowered her voice and added, “Thank you so much for sending a message to Harry. It would’ve been awful if I couldn’t get through to him. Is he alright?”

“He’s fine,” Hermione said quietly. “I visited him the night it happened. Don’t tell anyone. It’s so good to see you, Ginny,” she added more loudly.

“Hermione, it’s about time,” Ron called. He hurried to meet her and gave her an awkward one-and-a-half-armed hug. Fred was less restrained and nearly bowled her over himself. With George, however, they stared at each other for what was probably several seconds too long before he smiled, and they hugged each other normally.

“So, Lady Archimedes,” Fred said. “Have you blown anything up this summer?”

Hermione suppressed a groan. For some reason, she had a feeling she would come to regret giving herself that nickname. “No, I’ve managed to keep my house standing,” she replied. “How about yours?”

“Well, it’s been a bit of a job keeping our work hidden from Mum, but we’re making good progress,” George said. “We can show you some of our stuff later.” Fred and George dreamed of opening a joke shop when they graduated, something that Hermione, to her own surprise, thought would be a good career move on their part. However, they were hampered by the fact that, for one, the Weasleys didn’t have a lot of money, and they’d lost their meagre savings on a Quidditch bet with a man who wasn’t good for it; and for another, Mrs. Weasley thoroughly disapproved of the idea.

“That sounds good,” Hermione said, “but first, what’s going on here? I want the full story.”

Ron whistled. “Well, we’ve got time,” he said. “This might take a while.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found in JK Rowling’s brain.

_CRASH!_

_“Tonks!”_

_“Sorry!”_

_“FILTH! SCUM! MUTANT! HALF-BLOOD FREAK! HOW DARE YOU BEFOUL THE HOUSE OF BLACK?!”_

“What the heck?” Hermione said. She was listening to the Weasleys tell their tale when chaos broke out downstairs. She ran for the stairs, wanting to see what was causing some woman to scream blue murder at the top of her lungs.

“Don’t go down there!” All of the Weasley kids said.

But Hermione didn’t listen. Rushing to the front hall, she saw a strange sight. Mrs. Weasley was helping a young woman with pink hair off the floor. She appeared to have tripped over an ugly umbrella stand made from a troll’s leg. But the source of the howling was, shockingly, a portrait of an old woman, looking mad and half-senile, which had previously been hidden behind a set of curtains. She was screaming loud enough that she’d probably wake the whole street if it weren’t for the Fidelius Charm.

“What is that?” Hermione screamed as Mrs. Weasley tried to wrangle the curtains.

“Walburga Black,” the pink-haired woman yelled.

“Tonks, help me!” Mrs. Weasley called.

The pink haired woman grabbed the other curtain, and Hermione did her best to help, but some kind of charm seemed to be forcing them open.

“My name’s Tonks,” she said. It would have been in a conversational tone if she hadn’t had to shout. “Don’t let anyone tell you different. Pleased to meet you.”

“Thanks. I’m Hermione Granger—”

 _“GRANGER!”_ The portrait exploded with such force that Hermione, Tonks, and Mrs. Weasley were all thrown back against the opposite wall. _“I KNOW OF YOU! MUDBLOOD! DAUGHTER OF FILTH! CHILD OF A WHORE! YOU HAVE DEFILED THESE HALLOWED HALLS! KREACHER! REMOVE THIS UNWASHED PIECE OF—!”_

_“KREACHER, DO NOT!”_

Hermione turned and Sirius Black stomped into the front hall, past a very old house elf, who had raised his hand to Hermione with fingers poised to snap. Hermione had once seen Dobby throw Lucius Malfoy down a flight of stairs that way, so she could guess that it was good Sirius stopped him. Sirius managed to force the curtains back together, and the screaming mercifully stopped.

“Wow…I don’t think I’ve ever been insulted like that,” Hermione muttered.

Sirius turned around with a flip of his long hair and smiled at her. “Hello, Hermione,” he said. “I see you’ve met my mother.”

* * *

The Weasleys were right. Number Twelve Grimmauld Place was not a very livable place. It had been abandoned since 1985 until this summer, when Sirius reluctantly moved back in. It was infested with pests, both magical and mundane, and filled with dark artifacts. His old house elf Kreacher evidently hadn’t been cleaning. His mother’s portrait would wake up and start screaming whenever anyone made too much noise in the front hallway, and no one could figure out how to unstick her from the wall. Hermione wanted to take a crack at it, but Mrs. Weasley was strict about the no-wands rule in the house.

Over the next two days, Hermione got a crash course in the Order of the Phoenix. Apparently, it was established by Dumbledore during the last war to fight Voldemort, and they held periodic meetings that the Weasley children weren’t allowed in, not that it stopped them.

“These are handy little devices,” Fred told her with a grin. “Extendable ears.” He held up something that looked like a rubber ear on a string. “Slip one under the door, and you can hear every word they’re saying—at least as long as Mum doesn’t catch on.”

Several Order members were Aurors who were going behind the Minister’s back to fight a war he denied was happening. Nymphadora It’s-Just-Tonks-Or-Else was one of them, and so were Kingsley Shacklebolt and Hestia Jones, though she didn’t meet them, and the retired Mad-Eye Moody. Mundungus Fletcher, who had ditched Harry when he was supposed to be standing guard, was a petty thief and con man who had joined (on a deal with Dumbledore to keep him out of Azkaban, Hermione suspected) to pass along information from Knockturn Alley and other shady places in the magical world. Hermione’s initial meeting with him had been loud enough that he kept his distance from her afterwards. Of course, she couldn’t hold a candle to when Dumbledore tore into him. It was the one time she saw the Headmaster over those three days, and she was reminded why the old man was the only person Voldemort feared.

Harry’s neighbour, Arabella Figg, was a squib, and thus could nose around in the muggle world without being noticed. Since squibs weren’t highly regarded by most wizards, she was easy for a sympathetic figure like Dumbledore to sway. A few members, like Professor McGonagall and Elphias Doge, were personal friends of Dumbledore, and the rest seemed to be talented students whom Dumbledore had recruited straight out of Hogwarts in the 1970s. According to Remus, he, Sirius and Harry’s parents had been in that last category.

Hermione hadn’t met most of the Order yet, but she overheard Mr. and Mrs. Weasley speaking in hushed tones about a meeting when everyone was coming in for Harry’s arrival. Mrs. Weasley would need to cook dinner, so it was hard to keep it entirely secret. The Weasley kids didn’t know much about what the Order was doing, although they could surmise some of them were keeping tabs on suspected Death Eaters, some were on recruiting, and some were assigned to “guard duty”—presumably guarding Harry. Hermione passed along what she found out to Harry through Dobby when Mrs. Weasley wasn’t looking.

The real sore spot in the household was Percy. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley’s third son had been run through an inquiry at the Ministry after Barty Crouch Senior was murdered by his own son (that much truth _was_ in the official story), and Percy, his personal assistant, had never noticed a thing. Amazingly, Percy had survived the inquiry, but only by yoking himself to Minister Fudge and his line that Voldemort couldn’t possibly be back, and that Dumbledore was just stirring up trouble. Long story short, Percy had told his father it was a bad idea to tie his fortunes to Dumbledore, and when he failed to convince him, Percy walked out. Apparently, he’d said a lot of nasty things about his father, too. It was ugly. Mrs. Weasley started crying every time Percy was mentioned, so everyone tried not to bring it up.

Finally, Thursday evening arrived, and Remus and Moody went out to get Harry. The Twins had had no luck figuring out how he was coming, but Hermione didn’t think it was that important. This turned out to be optimistic.

Hermione rushed down to the front hall as soon as she heard Harry arrive to help clear up any problems he might cause, like telling people she’d been in touch with him. She stood on the stairs so she wouldn’t be in the way, and she would have been, for it was more than just Remus and Moody. No fewer than nine witches and wizards entered the house behind Harry. Hermione was just in time to hear Bill quip, “Mad-Eye didn’t make you come via Greenland, did he?”

“He tried to,” Tonks grumbled.

“Greenland?” Hermione said in confusion. “How did you get here, Harry?”

“We flew,” Harry said, waving to her. “Moody had us going all over the place to make sure we weren’t followed.”

“You flew brooms from Surrey?” she said incredulously. “Ten of you? How were you not seen?”

“Disillusionment, I think it was called.”

“Wouldn’t it have been easier to take the Knight Bus?”

“And have that Shunpike brat blabbing it all over Britain? Ha!” Moody growled. “You’ll need to think clearer than that, kid.”

“What about the Floo network? Muggle train? A _car_?” she pressed.

Remus stepped in before Moody could criticise her again: “There are ways to watch those, too. When you have both the Ministry _and_ Voldemort on the lookout for you, you want to be careful about that kind of thing. Disillusioned brooms were the most discreet way to do it.”

She looked at the nine escorts again. Fellowship of the Ring, much? “And it took nine of them to do it?”

“Uh huh,” Harry said. “They said they were the Advance Guard. I think there was a Rear Guard, too, but I didn’t see them.”

“All that work? I wish I’d known. I could’ve sent Dobby to fetch you and saved them the trouble. It would’ve been safer, too. Do they really think you’re in that much danger?”

“Better safe than sorry, lass,” Moody said. “CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

_BANG!_

_“INTRUDERS! BLOOD TRAITORS AND THIEVES…!”_

“Alastor!” Mrs. Weasley yelled. “Stop doing that! Is this what you call constant vigilance?”

Harry and Hermione stared at the scene for a minute. “It’s good to see you, Harry,” Hermione said.

“You too, Hermione.”

She hugged him and ushered him forward. “Come on. The Weasleys are all upstairs.”

“What was with that painting?”

“She’s Sirius’s mother.”

“His _mother_?” Harry said incredulously. “I think I understand why he ran away from home, now.”

“Everybody? Harry’s here!” Hermione called when they reached the second floor.

Ginny ran out from her and Hermione’s room and went full tilt at Harry, but unlike Hermione. Harry was ready for her. He not only caught her, but he actually picked her up and twirled her around before giving her a good, long kiss. Ron coughed to break it up as soon as he saw it, before they could really go overboard. Ginny wasn’t quite fourteen yet, after all. Still, they stayed close in each other’s arms.

“I missed you so much, Harry,” Ginny said softly.

“I missed you too, Ginny.”

“I got Hermione’s letter the other day.”

“Oh, good. You’re not mad are you?”

“No, I’m just glad you two wrote to me like I wasn’t a child. I would’ve gone spare without that.”

“Oi, we’re right here, you know,” Ron called.

Harry laughed, pulled back from Ginny and gave Ron a typical man-hug. “It’s good to see you too, mate,” he said.

“It wasn’t the same without you,” Ron replied. “Sorry for not writing more, but you know how our Mum is.”

Harry nodded resignedly. Ginny, who still had a grip on his arm, got an idea, leaned towards him, and whispered in his ear: “Harry, yell at me.”

“What?” he said.

“Yell at me. Pretend I didn’t send you any letters because Mum stopped me.”

Harry stared at her in bewilderment: “But why?”

“Because Mum doesn’t know I did. I want to teach her a lesson.”

“Are you…are you sure that’s a good idea.”

“Yeah, are you sure? Even I don’t if it’s a good idea to fool Mum like that,” Ron cut in.

“Maybe not, but she still needs to learn her lesson,” Ginny said. “It’s not just about keeping us apart, Harry. What right does she have to keep you in the dark like that?”

“Well…when you put it that way, okay then…” Harry could agree with the last bit. He thought for a minute and awkwardly raised his voice. “So why does Dumbledore want me in the dark?” he said. “Did you even bother to ask?”

“We tried,” Ginny insisted. “He’s only been around a couple of times, but we told him we wanted to tell you what was going on. He said it was too dangerous because owls could be intercepted.”

“That doesn’t explain why he didn’t contact me himself. He must know ways to send messages without owls.” _Hermione can do it, and Dumbledore_ _’s smarter than she is…I think._ “Why should you all get to know what’s happening when I don’t?”

“We don’t know much either. Mum won’t let us near the meetings—even the Twins. She says we’re too young—”

“Yeah, big _deal_!” Harry said louder. “So you haven’t been in the meetings! _At least you_ _’ve been having fun here. I’ve been stuck with those idiot Dursleys all summer!”_

“Ginny, this is a mistake,” Hermione whispered. Harry was bringing up _real_ grievances. Ron gave Hermione a nervous look, but he didn’t say anything.

But Ginny held up her hand for her to wait while making a “keep it going” motion at Harry, like she was directing a film. “I know, but—” she started.

“I SAVED DUDLEY’S SORRY SOUL FROM DEMENTORS WHEN IT WAS HIS FAULT WE WERE BOTH IN DANGER IN THE FIRST PLACE!” Harry shouted, loud enough for the whole house to hear, now. “WHAT THANKS DID I GET? “STAY IN YOUR ROOM AND DON’T CAUSE ANY MORE TROUBLE!” WHO FOUGHT OFF VOLDEMORT THREE TIMES? WHO FOUGHT A DRAGON AND KILLED A BASILISK? WHO SAW HIM COME BACK AND HAD TO ESCAPE? WHO SAVED _YOU_ FROM THAT DIARY? ME!”

Hermione gasped. He was _actually_ bringing up the diary? She didn’t care if it was an act. That _had_ to be hurting Ginny.

“DON’T TALK TO GINNY LIKE THAT!” Ron yelled.

“SHUT UP, RON! ALL THAT, AND _I_ _’M_ THE ONE NOBODY TELLS ANYTHING TO! NO NOTE THE PAST THREE DAYS AFTER I JUST GOT ATTACKED AGAIN? I DIDN’T KNOW IF YOU WERE ALRIGHT. JUST A “STAY IN THE HOUSE AND DON’T CAUSE ANY MORE TROUBLE!’”

Fred and George popped into existence behind Hermione, making her jump. They’d been Apparating everywhere now they were allowed to use magic, just because they could. It was getting annoying.

“Whoa, what’s going on?” Fred said in surprise.

“Break it up! Break it up!” George yelled.

“Wait,” Ginny held up her hand.

“Wha—”

“Shh.” She held a finger to her lips and winked at them. They knew a prank when they saw one, even if it was probably a bit mean for their tastes.

“She wants to teach your mum a lesson,” Hermione whispered.

They raised their eyebrows, but before they could speak, Ginny said, “Harry, we really wanted to write you, but—”

“CAN’T’VE WANTED IT TOO BAD, OR YOU WOULD’VE FOUND A WAY, BUT _DUMBLEDORE MADE YOU SWEAR_ —”

“We tried, but Mum said—”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione had to think this act might not be believable: Ginny wasn’t shouting back.

“I’VE BEEN STUCK AT PRIVETT DRIVE FOR FOUR WEEKS NICKING PAPERS OUT OF BINS TO TRY TO FIGURE OUT WHAT’S GOING ON, AND THAT WAS BEFORE I HAD TO WORRY IF YOU’D BEEN ATTACKED, TOO!”

“I was alright, Harry! I wanted to tell you—”

“YOU KNOW WHAT, I DON’T WANNA HEAR IT, GINNY! JUST DON’T TALK TO ME!” Harry walked over to the door.

_WHAM!_

He slammed it as hard as he could, but without leaving the room. “How was that?” he asked.

“Not bad,” Ginny said appreciatively. “We’ll make a Weasley out of you yet.”

“I still kinda wanna hit you,” Ron said.

“Wow, Gin, don’t you think that was a little much?” asked George.

Ginny shrugged. “Stopping me from writing Harry at all this week was crossing a line,” she said. “For both a friend _and_ a girlfriend. Mum needs to understand that.”

“Alright, but don’t come running to us when this all comes out,” Fred said.

Hermione was gaping at the Weasley Clan. She was now worried about this for a much more serious reason: none of them, nor Harry, seemed to be concerned about the very real injustices Harry had faced in all this. “Harry, we’re really sorry,” she said tearfully. “If we had any idea you were taking it that badly—”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” he cut in. “I didn’t mean that…well, I kinda did, but not enough to scream at you like that. I’m madder at Dumbledore for not letting you tell me anything important.”

“Not to mention your relatives’ house was supposed to be safe,” Hermione said. That was what really made her blood boil. Dumbledore has sent Harry to the Dursleys for a month, where she _knew_ they were emotionally abusive, at the very least, and everybody else went along with it because it was supposed to be the best way to keep him safe from Voldemort—the “blood wards” tied to his mother’s self-sacrifice, but they certainly didn’t save him from the dementors.

“Yeah, that was a problem,” Harry admitted. “And then the Ministry trying to expel me—anyway—”

They were interrupted by a knock at the door. “Kids? Do you know where Harry went?” It was Sirius’s voice, sounding concerned. “I need to talk to him.”

Harry bounded to the door and opened it. “Sirius!” he said excitedly.

“Harry! Are you alright? I had no idea you were taking things this badly.”

“It’s not that bad,” he assured him. “The fight was Ginny’s idea.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a prank on Mrs. Weasley.”

“Oh? Seems a little mean, even by my standards.”

“That’s what I thought,” Harry whispered, “but you don’t want to argue with the girlfriend.”

“I heard that!” Ginny called.

In the heat of the moment, neither of them noticed Harry’s choice of words.

“Although I _do_ have a few questions about what Dumbledore’s playing at,” Harry added.

“Let’s talk, then.”

Hermione and the Weasleys watched Harry go off with Sirius for a chat. Finally, Hermione broke the silence: “Are _you_ okay, Ginny? Harry said some nasty things about you.”

“It’s fine,” she said, even though she looked a little shaken. “The bits that were true were Dumbledore’s fault. He knows I told him everything I knew.”

“ _I_ kinda feel like a jerk now,” Ron said softly. “I just went along with it and didn’t write him much. I’ve been trying to be a better friend after last year.”

Ginny, to her credit, didn’t make a dig at her brother. “I don’t think he’s too mad at you either, Ron,” she assured him. “I made sure he knew we were in the same boat.”

Ron smiled a little: “Thanks, Gin.”

* * *

Sirius led Harry from the second floor up to the fourth where he let him into a large bedroom. The room was decorated like a cross between the Gryffindor dorms and a muggle university dorm, all in Gryffindor colours and with unmoving muggle posters of bikini-clad women.

“My old room,” Sirius explained. “By the way, if you find a locked door, don’t try to force it. It means the room is unsafe to enter. You’re lucky we got the place cleaned as much as we did so you can kip with Ron. When we first got here, we had to have me, Remus, and all three of the boys camping out in the kitchen.”

“That bad?” Harry said, even though he knew part of that from Ginny.

“Worse. Rats, tarantulas, ghouls, doxies—pests breeding everywhere. That’s what happens when a magical house is abandoned. Anyway, how are you doing? I know you sounded pretty mad in your letter about the dementors.”

“I just want to know why you didn’t write again,” Harry said. He tried to be calm about it, but an edge crept back into his voice.

“I wanted to, pup. I almost did, but Dumbledore said it was safer not to let any owls near you, just in case that’s how the dementors found you. And Ginny told me she got a message through to you, so I let it go.”

“Yeah. She had to go through Hermione “cause her mum wouldn’t let her write to me.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sorry I wasn’t more open with you this summer, Harry,” Sirius said. “I think Dumbledore was right about this week, but it was wrong to keep you so out of the loop. I’ve been worried you’d get antsy and do something…”

“Stupid?” Harry offered.

“I was going to say reckless. I never imagined you’d get attacked on Privett Drive, though, much less by dementors.”

“Yeah. What were they doing there?”

“I don’t know. And neither does Dumbledore, which is the scary part. Voldemort used dementors last time, but we thought they were still under Ministry control. Something doesn’t smell right about this.”

Harry just nodded and changed the subject. “So why didn’t Dumbledore want me to know anything?”

“To be honest, I’m not sure myself. Obviously, there are _some_ things it’s safer if you don’t know. Secrecy’s important in war. But I think he’s being a little paranoid about it, and I told him so.”

“What did he say to that?”

“Gave me a vague answer and changed the subject.”

“Ah. So he did what he usually does?” Harry concluded.

“Yeah, pretty much. But I’m putting my foot down this time. You were right down there. You’ve got more right to know this stuff than anyone. Tonight, you can ask us anything you want about the Order—at least until someone sensible like Remus says otherwise.”

Harry smiled a little at that. “Thanks, Sirius,” he said, hugging his godfather.

* * *

While Sirius and Harry were catching up, the Weasley kids and Hermione were trying to find out what was happening at the meeting. (Presumably, Remus would tell Sirius the details later.) Watching the kitchen door from above on the stairs and dropping one of the Twins’ Extendable Ears, they tried to get word of Snape’s report. Apparently, Snape didn’t come around very often, seeing as he was Dumbledore’s spy among the Death Eaters, so this was a big deal. Unfortunately, Mrs. Weasley had charmed the door Imperturbable.

“Can’t you break through that, Hermione?” Ron asked.

“Maybe,” she said, “but even if your Mum didn’t notice, I’m sure Bill would.” She could understand their frustration. She’d only been here a few days, and Mrs. Weasley’s determination not to let them know what was going on was already getting on her nerves.

The remained unsuccessful by the time the meeting broke up, and the various members poured out of the kitchen. Snape took no time getting out of there, striding up to the front door and making his exit, his robes billowing behind him.

“How _does_ he get his robes to do that?” Hermione wondered.

“We’ve been wondering that for six years,” Fred answered.

“We think it’s some kind of dark wizard trick,” George added.

“Kids,” Mrs. Weasley called up the stairs. “Don’t think I don’t see you up there. Come on down. We’ll be having dinner in a moment.”

They descended the stairs to the kitchen. From the look of things, Tonks was staying for dinner along with (Merlin knew why) Mundungus Fletcher. And Remus, of course, but he unofficially lived there anyway. It was better than any flat he could hope to get on his own. If it weren’t for Sirius, he wouldn’t be doing very well right now. Apparently, some woman named Umbridge at the Ministry has pushed through a bunch of anti-werewolf laws in response to Remus being was outed as a werewolf last year whilst teaching at Hogwarts.

Harry and Sirius were a little later in returning, but they looked like they had reached an understanding. However, when Harry came down the stairs, Ginny deliberately kept her distance from him, and he followed her lead. Mrs. Weasley gave the two of them a very uncomfortable look.

“So, Harry, tell me exactly how you got here,” Hermione said before things could get too awkward. “It sounds like you took the long way around.”

“Yeah, pretty much. So, Uncle Vernon was under the impression that he was a finalist for the All-England Best-Kept Suburban Lawn Competition this evening,” Harry said with a sly glance at Tonks.

“In the middle of a drought?” Hermione said incredulously. “He actually bought that?”

“Yeah. And here’s the best part. All month, he and Aunt Petunia have been gossipping about their neighbours wasting water on _their_ lawns.”

Hermione and most of the table laughed, even if she didn’t think it was that funny. To hear Harry talk about it, his relatives were a bunch of clowns, but he _had_ confided to her once how awful they were when he was younger. Hence why he wanted to spend as much time as possible with Sirius.

Harry explained how the “Advance Guard” had come to pick him up and fly him to London, except that Moody was too paranoid to fly in a straight line. It seemed overcomplicated to Hermione, but it was over now, so it didn’t much matter.

Ginny mostly amused herself by asking Tonks to make funny faces. Tonks was a Metamorphmagus, meaning she could change her appearance at will, a talent she liked to flaunt to anyone who was interested.

However, Hermione’s eared perked up when she heard the name of Ludo Bagman from Bill Weasley. “Ragnok’s still pretty mad about him,” he said. “See, Ragnok’s brother was one of the goblins Bagman owes all that gold to. He’s not too keen to help the Ministry because Bagman was their man, but I’m not sure if he believes Dumbledore’s line on You-Know-Who, either.”

“So no one’s heard from Bagman, then?” Hermione asked.

“Not since June. Disappeared from the Ministry and everything. You haven’t heard anything, have you?”

“No. Nothing.” Ludo Bagman had lost a lot of money in unwise betting decisions last year to Hermione, Fred, and George, and worse, to a trio of goblins from Gringotts. The goblins weren’t forgiving when he couldn’t pay up. “I was hoping that book I gave him would do something, but I guess it was a long shot.”

“What book?” Mrs. Weasley asked.

“Oh, before Bagman left Hogwarts, I had Dobby slip a book into his travel bag. I was just a bit miffed because that maze he built gave me nightmares, and I thought turnabout would be fair play.”

Sirius raised his eyebrow at her as he made the connection. “You cursed a book?” he said.

“Oh no, it wasn’t cursed. It was _The Complete Works of H.P. Lovecraft_.”

“What? You didn’t!” Remus gasped.

“Oh, Merlin! That’s just evil,” Tonks said. “My Dad had a copy of some of those. I had nightmares for a month.”

“That scary?” Sirius asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say so _now_ ,” Hermione answered, “but I…sort of gave him the impression that the stories were true.”

“You _didn_ _’t_!” Tonks said while Remus howled with laughter.

“Oh, I did. But if the nightmares aren’t bad enough to send him running back, it won’t do much good.” She sighed theatrically. “Maybe I should consult my copy of the _Necronomicon_.”

Remus stopped mid-laugh with an unmanly squeak and clutched at his chest, and Tonks paled albino-white all the way to her hair and fell out of her seat.

Hermione started laughing. “I’m kidding! Honestly!”

Sirius roared with a laugh that sounded like barking, and it set off the rest of the table. Even Mrs. Weasley chuckled a little, although she tried to stop herself. “That was brilliant, Hermione!” Sirius gasped. “I don’t know what it was but it was the best prank I’ve seen all week.”

“About gave me a bloody heart attack,” Remus grumbled. “What that muggle thought magic was like—I’d take Voldemort himself over most of the monsters in that book.”

That comment left Hermione, Remus, and Tonks trying to explain to the shocked Weasleys just what was so horrifying about _The Call of Cthulhu._ Eventually, the conversation moved on, but the big confrontation came after dessert.

“Alright, Harry,” Sirius said. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions by now, so ask away.”

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Weasley said.

“What’s Voldemort doing, for starters?” Harry said. “Ginny, Ron, and Hermione told me what they knew, but that wasn’t much.”

“And for good reason,” Mrs. Weasley cut in. “You’re all too young to be in the Order. You don’t need to be worrying about those kinds of things.”

“And what are we? Chopped liver?” Fred called. “We’re of age, and we haven’t got any answers out of you lot all summer.”

“Well—” Sirius started, but Remus cut him off.

“That’s between you and your parents,” the werewolf said calmly. “But they do have a point, Molly. You can’t expect them to stay here all summer and not ask questions.”

“That doesn’t mean they have a right to expect answers,” Mrs. Weasley shot back.

“Harry has more right to those answers than anyone,” Sirius growled. “He’s the one who saw Voldemort come back, you know.”

Mrs. Weasley shuddered at the name, but she held her ground. “Except for the bit where Dumbledore told you not to tell Harry any more than he _needs to know_ ,” she said.

“I know that. And I’ll definitely be taking that up with Dumbledore, but—”

Most of the kids were watching the exchange like a tennis rally, but Hermione’s mind tuned out and started turning over that statement. Dumbledore wanted to keep Harry on a need-to-know basis, regardless of the owls? Why? Did he not trust him to keep a secret? Harry was a bit slower on the uptake, but he started to realise the same thing if his face was any indication.

“—not a _child_!” Sirius yelled as Hermione tuned back into the argument.

“He’s not an adult either!” Mrs. Weasley snapped.

“He’s _my_ godson. He stayed with me last summer, if you recall.”

“He’s as good as one of ours, too. Isn’t he Arthur?”

Mr. Weasley took a moment to clean his glasses, giving himself time to collect his thoughts. “Dumbledore knew Harry wouldn’t be able to stay at Headquarters without getting a general picture of the situation,” he said. “He doesn’t need to know all the facts, but he has a right to that much.”

“He’s too young, Arthur,” she said sadly. “All of them are. They shouldn’t have to worry—”

“You’re not going to stop us worrying, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione interrupted. She had to agree with Harry and Sirius. Under the circumstances, they really ought to know. “Harry’s the one Voldemort keeps trying to kill, and we’re all his best friends. I don’t see how it can get much worse to worry about.”

“You didn’t live through the last war, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said coldly.

Hermione didn’t have a response to that.

“I think Harry is old enough to decide for himself,” Remus said.

Mrs. Weasley deflated. She could tell she was outnumbered and that Remus was playing the moderate voice. “Fine. But on you head be it.” She wagged her finger at him. “Dumbledore must have had a good reason for not wanting Harry to know too much.”

 _He didn_ _’t even tell_ them _why?_ Hermione wondered. _Wow, he really does do that to everyone, doesn_ _’t he?_

“Ginny, Ron, Hermione, Fred, George, you can all go to bed. Now,” Mrs. Weasley continued.

There was a lot of shouting from the younger Weasley kids and their mother. Hermione just stayed in her seat defiantly until it died down.

“You can’t stop Fred and George, Molly,” Mr. Weasley told her gently. “They _are_ of age.”

“Oh, alright, then. Ginny, Ron, Hermione—”

“I’m not leaving,” Hermione said.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m staying here.”

“You most certainly are not!”

“You can’t order me out,” she said, still not raising her voice.

The Weasley kids uttered a soft gasp. Molly Weasley was not accustomed to being stood up to like this. “I can’t, can I?” she said warningly. She loomed over Hermione in her seat. “You’re not of age. You’re too young and—”

“Mrs. Weasley!” Hermione snapped. She stood up and faced her. “You are not my mother.” A stunned silence gripped the room. “This is Sirius’s house. He’s acting _in loco parentis_ for me. That means _he_ decides where I can and can’t go and what I can and can’t hear. Legally, _you_ have no say.”

No one spoke. Everyone seemed to be expecting an explosion. But instead, Mrs. Weasley seemed to be on the verge of tears. “I’m just trying to do what’s best for my family,” she said shakily. “And Hermione, I know you have two wonderful parents of your own, but I _do_ care about you.”

If she was trying to make Hermione feel guilty, it was working. She probably _had_ been a little too harsh just then. But it wasn’t enough to make her back down. She continued to stand her ground.

“If you’re so determined to stay, I suppose I can’t stop you,” she answered. “But Ron—”

“Mum—” Ron jumped in, but his mother’s sudden tears gave him pause. Instead of the angry retort he had no doubt been preparing, he tried to reason with her: “Er…you know Harry’s not gonna keep a secret from us, don’t you. I mean, we’ve been in the thick of it with him half the time, whether we wanted it or not.”

Mrs. Weasley didn’t acquiesce straightaway. She looked between Ron and Harry questioningly, and she shot a vaguely accusing look at Harry for going against her wishes.

“You’ll tell us, won’t you, Harry?” Ron asked.

Harry nodded to Ron, but it was more complicated with Ginny. He and Ginny looked at each other with expressions of feigned annoyance, keeping up their act. Mrs. Weasley’s eyes focused on Ginny.

This was the moment of truth. If Ginny was the only one excluded from this, it wouldn’t be pretty. Would she give up her cruel prank for this? Hermione thought it might be better if she did, but when she saw the worry in Ginny’s eyes, she couldn’t hold back. “I’d tell them both anyway, Mrs. Weasley,” she said. “Ron’s right. We’ve all been in the thick of it before. I know you don’t want your children to be caught up in this, but it’s too late for that.”

Mrs. Weasley sat down, tearful and defeated. “This was supposed to be over and done with before…” she muttered. “Very well. I suppose I can’t deny it.”

Mr. Weasley scooted over and put his arm around her. “It’ll be alright, Molly,” he whispered.

With that settled, albeit painfully, Sirius and Remus explained what the Order knew about Voldemort’s movements. Voldemort hadn’t killed anyone in the month since he came back, nor made any other overt moves. His power base was weakened after thirteen years of being dead and all his followers abandoning him. Thus, he had intended to kill Harry in that graveyard and keep his return completely secret while he built up again, but now, the best he could do was lie low and take advantage of the Ministry’s denial of his return. That had been a very lucky stroke for him, which only made Hermione and Harry resent the Ministry more.

When Harry came back from the graveyard and told his story, Dumbledore had started to rebuild the Order of the Phoenix within the hour, and so the two enemies hit the ground running at the same time. Now, the Order was trying to derail Voldemort’s plans—he was recruiting the more unsavoury sorts of wizards and magical creatures, and Dumbledore was trying to dissuade his potential recruits.

Unfortunately, Fudge was afraid Dumbledore was trying to create a scare so that he could take over the Ministry, which sounded completely paranoid, but nothing would convince him otherwise. He was scared of Dumbledore’s brilliant mind, and he was even more scared of the prospect that Voldemort could be back—so scared that he simply refused to believe it. It was Fudge’s manoeuvring that forced Dumbledore out of the Wizengamot and the ICW, and his influence that made the _Daily Prophet_ run all those stories discrediting Dumbledore and Harry. Thanks to him Sirius, was practically the only other person in the Order who could get away with publicly proclaiming the truth, and even that was risky. Fudge could have him charged with sedition—or at least being a public nuisance.

But there was one last bit that Hermione and the Weasleys had not even heard a whisper of. According to Sirius, Voldemort was after something. “Like a weapon,” he said. “Something he didn’t have last time.”

“What kind of a weapon?” Harry asked.

“That’s enough,” Mrs. Weasley jumped in. She seemed to have collected her wits about her again because she was being very firm. “You’ve given Harry enough answers, Sirius. This is _definitely_ Order members only.”

“Well, where do I sign up?” Harry said hostilely.

“The Order is for overage wizards only,” Remus said. “Wizards who have finished school,” he added to Fred and George. “Make no mistake. This is war. There are dangers you can’t have any idea about—any of you. You’re too young. And Molly’s right, Sirius. This isn’t something the children should know.”

“Fair enough,” Sirius agreed.

“Good. Then it’s time for bed,” Mrs. Weasley said.

They acquiesced and went upstairs, but Hermione stopped to talk to Remus first. She knew it would be useless to talk to any of the other adults in the house. Remus seemed to be _de facto_ in charge of Order business, and he sounded the most fair of any of them.

“Professor Lupin—” she started.

“You can call me Remus, Hermione. I’m not your professor anymore.”

“Remus. I—look, Mrs. Weasley is right. I _don_ _’t_ know what it’s like to live through a war. But I _do_ know what it’s like to almost lose my best friend. I know what it’s like to almost be eaten by a giant snake and attacked by a dark wizard. I don’t know what it’s like to lose a parent or anyone close to me, but I _do_ know what it’s like to almost get my soul sucked out by a dementor. I’m smart enough not to speculate on which is worse, but I have a hard time imagining anything worse. Now, is that being wise, or blissfully naive?”

Remus stared at her a minute and sighed: “You have been through far more than you should have had to, Hermione. More than many adults. But this isn’t your fight. It _will_ be. Someday soon, I fear, but not yet.”

“It _is_ my fight now,” she protested. “Voldemort knows me. I hexed him in the face twice when he was still a spirit, and he tried to kill me and my friends several times.”

“You’re not going to change my mind, Hermione. You’re too young to fight.”

She shook her head: “It’s not about actually fighting, Remus. I won’t be in England anyway, but I can still be _useful_. I can invent spells! I can invent spells even Voldemort hasn’t dreamed up. In fact, I’ll be inventing spells anyway, but I could be more useful if you told me what sorts of things you might need. I just can’t sit on my arse safe and sound in France while you’re all in danger.”

Remus stared at her another minute and sighed again. “I’ll take it up with Dumbledore. I can’t promise more than that. Maybe he’ll have a useful project for you to work on.”

“Thank you. That’s all I’m asking.”

“Very well. Good night, Hermione.”

“Good night, Remus.”

“Oh, and don’t judge Mrs. Weasley too harshly,” he told her. “She lost both of her brothers in the last war. They were both in the Order. It’s incredibly brave of her to come anywhere near this place after that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Secret communication with JK Rowling reveals the following message: “Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling.”
> 
> Credit to pottersparky for the idea of Sirius confronting Dumbledore about teaching Harry Occlumency. However, things are more complicated than they may seem. I’m not sure myself when and how Harry will start the lessons, and I have my reasons for saying so, but I do have plans for when he does.

The next morning, George woke Hermione and Ginny early for breakfast, as Mrs. Weasley wanted to get started on the cleaning as soon as possible. They had been cleaning some since Hermione arrived, but they were doing the drawing room today—long overdue given the number of people in the house—and it looked to be a bigger job than the rest of it.

Mrs. Weasley seemed to be watching the teens more closely than usual today, so that they couldn’t have a private conversation after the revelations last night—as if they would forget about it eventually. She also kept eyeing Harry and Ginny, looking for signs of the state of their relationship. They managed to play their parts well, being formal and distant towards each other despite how it must have pained them. But Ginny was a stubborn sort.

After a quick breakfast, Sirius undid the seals on a door that Hermione had thus far been forbidden to enter as if they were seals laid on a cursed tomb. Beyond it was a long, high-ceilinged room with ugly, olive green walls covered in faded tapestries. Every inch of it was filthy, with cobwebs everywhere, dirt and dust on every surface, and scattered droppings of small animals. A buzzing like a swarm of bees emanated from the curtains. The only place that looked untouched was a glass display case filled with suspicious-looking artifacts.

“Well, it’s a big job,” Mrs. Weasley said. “Are you ready to start?”

“Not quite, Mrs. Weasley. I think we’re going to need backup,” Hermione said.

“Backup?”

“Dobby?”

_Pop!_

“Yes, Miss Herm—Hooky’s tea towel! What is happened to this house?”

 _Hooky_ _’s tea towel?_ Hermione thought. _When did Dobby start using figures of speech?_

But she didn’t have time to question it before Dobby sniffed the air and caught a familiar scent. “Who is being responsible for cleaning—? Kreacher!” he shouted. “Dobby smells Kreacher!”

There was a shuffling sound, and Kreacher, Sirius’s old family elf whom Hermione had generally been avoiding, came into the room. “Dobby is being here?” he mumbled to himself. “Mistress Narcissa’s elf has come to see Kreacher?”

“Dobby does not work for the Malfoy Family anymore,” the younger elf said, crossing his arms. “Dobby is a free elf.”

Kreacher gasped and stumbled back as if Dobby were diseased. “Dobby is being free?! Dobby has disgraced his pedigree! Oh, he is being most shamed; yes he is!”

“You is being one to talk, Kreacher,” Dobby sniffed. “I still works like a proper elf, and Miss Hermione Granger is a very good employer. You is a bad elf, letting your house rot like this.”

“You has an _employer_?” Kreacher whispered as if it were something unspeakably salacious. “You is working for… _wages!_ You is a very sick and perverted elf. You is a danger to elf society.”

“I is not a bad elf. The Hogwarts elves is comfortable with me. It is being a lifestyle choice—er, is that right, Miss Hermione?”

“Yes, Dobby. Lifestyle choice.” She’d had to introduce that phrase to the elves’ vocabulary.

“Yes. _You_ is the sick elf, Kreacher,” he said. “You is not even cleaning!”

“Dobby does not speak like a proper elf; no he doesn’t,” Kreacher muttered, half to himself. “Dobby was always being the strange one in the pedigree—resenting his masters, ideas above his station. _Kreacher_ _’s_ Mistress would not have stood for it. She would have taken his head early as an example to other elves.”

“That’s barbaric!” Hermione exclaimed. “Please tell me all the families don’t do that.”

“No, Miss Hermione. Only the Blacks, that Dobby knows of.”

“Kreacher is not listening to Dobby. Kreacher is a loyal elf. Kreacher obeys his Mistress.”

“You is not obeying your family. You is not keeping the home. You ought to be punished.”

“Dobby!” Hermione said.

“Dobby is ashamed you is part of my pedigree.”

“You’re related?” Hermione said, forgetting her previous objection, but as she said it she realised it made sense. Dobby’s former mistress, Narcissa Malfoy, was Sirius’s cousin.

“Kreacher is being Dobby’s uncle—on my _father_ _’s_ side,” he said (as if that mattered) with the disdain humans reserved for the proverbial redheaded stepchild. Actually, that made sense, too, in the matrilineal House Elf culture.

“Kreacher will not be insulted by a wage-whore and his mudblood _client_ —”

 _“You will not insult Hermione Granger!”_ Dobby screeched, and he launched himself at Kreacher.

“Dobby, stop!” Hermione yelled.

“What’s going on here?” Sirius roared as he stormed into the room. “Kreacher, stop!”

Both elves froze in mid-fight and looked up at their respective master/employer. Dobby was younger and stronger and had Kreacher partially pinned, but Kreacher fought dirtier and was going at it with teeth and nails. Harry and the Weasleys, who had watched the exchange in silence, now stared in shock.

“Wow—house elf fight,” said Fred.

“You only hear about those in old stories about dark families,” George added.

“They used to sell tickets,” Fred continued.

“Thankfully, we’ve moved beyond such spectacles,” Mrs. Weasley said warningly.

“Er…Kreacher…” Hermione said tentatively. “I called Dobby to help clean the house. I don’t know why…” She looked around. “…why it’s got into this state but—”

“But we don’t need you,” Sirius interrupted.

“Sirius,” Hermione scolded.

“No, I meant it. Every time you show up pretending to clean, Kreacher, you try to sneak off with something.”

“Kreacher would never move anything from its proper place in the House of Black,” the elf muttered. “Mistress would never forgive Kreacher if the tapestry was hurt.”

“Ha! Your Mistress is being dead many years if she is letting you be like this,” Dobby cut in.

“Dobby, that’s enough,” Hermione whispered. “And why shouldn’t Kreacher be concerned about your property, Sirius?”

“Dark magic,” he growled. “This place is riddled with it. Safer to just chuck most of this stuff.”

“Master is nasty ungrateful swine,” Kreacher mumbled. “No respect for his heritage.”

“Kreacher, go away,” Sirius snapped.

“Kreacher must do as Master wishes. But what Mistress would say if she saw the house now. She swore Master was no son of hers, and they say he’s a murderer, too.”

“Keep muttering, and I will be a murderer!”

“Sirius, don’t,” Hermione said. “He’s not well. Long-term isolation can do awful things to a person. He needs help, not abuse.”

“I’ve been through worse than him, and I turned out alright,” Sirius growled dangerously.

Hermione wisely didn’t try to contradict that. “Well, whatever the reason, he didn’t. Look, he just insulted his master _to your face_. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but that is _not_ healthy elf behaviour.”

“Nah, that’s just because my mother taught him to hate me. He’s perfectly loyal to her.”

“Well, if you hate him so much, why don’t you free him?” she said resentfully. “Why would you keep kicking him around like this?”

Sirius shook his head: “He knows too much about the Order. Plus the shock would kill him. He hasn’t lost _that_ trait.”

“Kreacher is needing a few good kicks, miss,” Dobby piped up. “For an elf to willingly live like this—” He motioned to the filth in the room. “—it is being a disgrace, bound or free.”

Hermione sighed: “I don’t think it’s his fault, Dobby. I think he’s gone mad from the isolation, and maybe we could help him. I want you to try to work with him—”

“But Miss Hermione, he calls you—”

“I heard what he called me, Dobby. I’ll probably be called worse before this war is over. You don’t have to like him, but I want you to try to work with him respectfully. Understand?”

Dobby’s ears drooped. “I understands, miss,” he said.

“Good. And Sirius, maybe if you tried to reconcile with Kreacher, he’d be more pleasant. If you’re stuck with him anyway—”

“Ha! Fat chance of that. I’ve never liked him, and he’s never liked me, even before I turned “blood-traitor.” He could see it in my eyes, or so he said. Always liked Regulus better.”

“And how did you treat him when you were a kid?” Hermione said shrewdly. She didn’t want to think he was anything like Draco Malfoy at that age—Sirius _had_ made Gryffindor, after all—but Gryffindors could be spoilt brats, too, as well as rebels, maybe even at the same time.

“What do you mean? He was just a fixture of the house. I tried my best to ignore him. Regulus always liked him, but then Regulus was always the perfect little pureblood prince,” he said with a bit of a sneer.

“And you’re surprised that Kreacher liked Regulus back?” Hermione said incredulously.

“Hermione, I never liked my family,” Sirius said indignantly. “I ran away from home for a good reason.”

“Yes, Harry told me the story. But Kreacher didn’t have a choice in the matter.”

“Oh, Kreacher can take plenty of initiative, believe me.”

“That’s still no reason to abuse him! Sirius, a few months ago, you were praising how I treat house elves. I thought you were above this.”

“But this is Kreacher,” he said without hesitation. “I’ve known him since I was a kid.”

“Well, I haven’t!” she snapped. “All I know is that you’re treating an obviously mentally-ill person like dirt, and abusing him and threatening him just like all the other purebloods who think their elves are worthless slaves!”

Sirius gasped at the comparison. Dobby sensed his rising anger and stepped protectively in front of Hermione. Sirius had beaten him in a fight before, but he wasn’t about to stand by. Sirius took a menacing step towards Hermione, and Dobby raised his hand, fingers poised to snap. The Weasleys started, and Harry grabbed Sirius’s arm and pulled him back.

“Sirius, don’t,” he whispered, sensing the danger. His godfather’s anger management problems had never fully gone away after Azkaban. “Er, she _does_ kinda have a point. Kreacher’s an arse, but even I can tell he’s not right in the head.”

At that moment, Ginny strategically scoffed and spoke up: “Oh, come on, Harry, you heard what he called Hermione.”

“Not now, Ginny!” he snapped back, sounding much more angry with her than with his godfather. But both of them winked when Mrs. Weasley wasn’t looking. “So what do you say, Sirius?”

Sirius paused and sighed loudly as he considered his godson’s words. “Sorry, Harry, that was out of line,” he muttered. Attacking Harry’s friend would do no good in any case.

“Sirius…Hermione…” Mrs. Weasley spoke up before anything else could happen. “I think you both need to cool off—separately.”

Sirius and Hermione looked at her and then looked at each other. “I’ll be downstairs,” Sirius said. “Um, sorry about that, Hermione,” he added, more for Harry’s sake. “I’ll, er, think about what you said.” He left the room before she could answer.

“I’ll…keep helping with the cleaning,” Hermione said uneasily. She was _not_ expecting to get in a fight with her best friend’s godfather today.

The mood was subdued as Mrs. Weasley handed out bottles of doxycide and set them to attacking the curtains. Soon, the air was thick with tiny black biting fairies, and they were too preoccupied to talk much.

“So, uh, I guess he’s pretty messed up, but Kreacher’s still an arse, yeah?” Ron ventured after a few minutes.

“Unfortunately,” Hermione admitted, thinking back to what the elf had said. That really had hurt a little. “I’ve never heard _those_ insults before. Most elves just look at Dobby like he’s gay or something—well, like muggles would, anyway.”

“Muggles have a problem with that?” Ron said in surprise.

“Depends on who you ask. I expect in another twenty years or so, hardly anyone will bat an eye.”

“Oh.”

There wasn’t much opportunity to talk, as they were too busy trying to avoid doxy bites. Hermione saw Fred and George pocketing a couple of the doxies, no doubt for some nefarious purpose. Harry continued to make a show of rebuffing Ginny when she approached him. There was a crisis later that morning as they cleaned out a nest of dead puffskeins from under the sofa, which made everyone in the room queasy. Only the Twins had the nerve to actually carry them out and dispose of them. Hermione only saw a pile of dirty, custard-coloured fluff, but the smell alone was enough for her.

They were very surprised, though when one of the Twins spoke up and said, “Oi! Hold up! This one’s still alive!”

“A live one?” Ginny said with interest.

She rushed to see. Fred came back into the room carrying a small, perfectly spherical ball of fur that just fit in his hand, with two beady, black eyes blinking out at them.

“Aww, it’s just a baby,” Ginny cooed. Hermione knew from _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ that adult puffskeins were about twice that size. “It must be horrible for it here.”

“I’m not so sure it’s a baby,” George said.

“Oh? Why not?” asked Fred.

“Look at the eyes. Too small to be a baby. I think it’s a midget.”

“Huh. I think you’re right, brother,” Fred said. “Maybe that’s now it stayed alive. Didn’t need as much food.” He started stroking the creature, and it started purring with a very distinctive and familiar trilling sound.

Hermione paled, and her eyes widened: “Oh my God, it’s a tribble!”

“A what?”

“It’s a creature from muggle stories. But they look and sound just like that…Um…please tell me those things don’t breed every twelve hours.”

“What? That’s nuts!”

“Although, puffskeins aren’t that hard to breed,” George suggested.

“Hmm. I think maybe we’ll keep this one,” Fred said cagily, obviously not revealing their plan in front of their mother.

“Are you barmy?” Ron demanded. “After what you did to mine?”

“That was an accident!” Fred snapped.

“What did he do you your puffskein?” Hermione asked.

“Whacked it with a Beater’s bat,” Ron said.

“FRED!”

“I was nine!” he protested. “And Charlie dosed me with a Confusing Concoction because we tried to prank him into snogging Tonks.”

Hermione opened her mouth and shut it again. It was best not to question all the crazy things that happened in that family.

* * *

They broke for lunch after having thoroughly de-doxied the drawing room. Everyone got bitten at least once, but fortunately, doxy bites were no more than an annoyance if treated immediately. After a light lunch of sandwiches, Mrs. Weasley worked up her nerve and said, “Harry, could I speak with you for a moment?”

Harry nodded and followed her up to his bedroom, for lack of anywhere else to go in the house. Before she left, she shot a silent look at her children that said _Stay_. However, Ginny nodded to the Twins, and they broke out the Extendable Ears—all according to plan.

Mrs. Weasley leaned against the foot of the bed and motioned for Harry to take the seat at the desk. Harry felt a little nervous. He wasn’t really sure how far Ginny wanted him to take this. He also didn’t particularly want to lie to Mrs. Weasley. That wouldn’t endear her to his side of things, even if he wasn’t too happy with her at the moment.

“Harry,” Mrs. Weasley said, “I heard you had a fight with Ginny yesterday.”

“Yeah?” Harry said after a pause. The whole house had heard it, but he decided to let her go on on her own to start with.

“You said you were angry because no one was writing to you.”

Did he? Choosing his words carefully, he replied, “I _think_ I said I was mad because no one would tell me what was going on.”

“Well, Professor Dumbledore said it would be safer not to send you any information that could be intercepted,” she said. “Arthur and Sirius _did_ send you letters with as much information as we could safely tell you.”

“What about how _you_ were doing?” he snapped, feigning anger. It wasn’t hard.

“Excuse me?”

“Mrs. Weasley, I was attacked by dementors—the darkest creatures in the world. That’s not supposed to happen. I didn’t have any idea who did it or how. Who was to say they weren’t coming for you or Hermione’s family next?”

“Arthur and Sirius—”

“Yes, they sent me letters, but that was right away. They might’ve come for you later. No one ever told me if the dementors were under control again…” He paused as it hit him: “I _still_ don’t know if they’re under control again. Did they track down the dementors that attacked me, or are they still roaming free somewhere?”

Mrs. Weasley thought it over. “You’ll have to ask Sirius about that. There hasn’t been any other sign of them, though.”

“Well, that sounds like something someone should look into, doesn’t it? I didn’t get another owl for three days. Even Hedwig didn’t come back. I thought for sure at least Ginny would send a note to let me know you were all okay.” Which _was_ true, for a short time until Hermione showed up. “But then I got here and found out you were all fine, and she just didn’t write to me.” Also true. She had only written to Hermione. “So _yeah_ , I think I have a right to be angry!” He felt more uncomfortable than angry at the moment, but he had the right under the circumstances.

Mrs. Weasley suddenly looked as if she were on the verge of tears. “Harry, I am _so_ sorry,” she said, looking down at her hands. “I wanted to tell you—it wasn’t Ginny’s fault that she didn’t write you—or the boys’. It was mine. Professor Dumbledore said it was too dangerous to send any owls to you, period, because they could be followed. That might have been how the dementors found you. So I made sure she couldn’t send you any letters—and believe me, she made that difficult for me. I must’ve caught her trying to sneak a letter six times in those three days.”

Harry was feeling a lot more uncomfortable now. He could see how much this was hurting Mrs. Weasley, who was already on the edge over Percy. But to stop her now would be to out himself early, so he let her keep going.

“Harry, I really did think I was doing the right thing. But I see now I was so worried about keeping you safe that I didn’t think about anything else. I didn’t think about how you would feel, worrying about us, and I never wanted to hurt your and Ginny’s…relationship…” She seemed to trip over the word. “I don’t know if that surprises you or not. Ginny’s not quite fourteen yet, and personally, I think she’s awfully young for all this, but I’ve seen the way her face lit up when she talked about you this summer. She’s very fond of you. So I hope you won’t hold any of this against her. I was the one who stopped her writing.”

Mrs. Weasley seemed to have finished, and Harry really didn’t want this to go on any longer, so he leaned forward and said, “I know.”

Mrs. Weasley’s head snapped up: “What?”

“I knew it was you the whole time.”

“What? But—but how?”

“Ginny’s trickier than you thought. She got a message to me through Hermione.”

“Hermione? But we told her—”

“Hermione has more ways to send messages than owls, Mrs. Weasley.”

She slumped back in her seat. “Of course she does,” she muttered. “Oh, I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be a stubborn teenager. So all of that yesterday? You just…staged a fight?”

Harry flushed with embarrassment, but he nodded.

“And why would you do that?”

Her voice was rising and turning stern. Harry started to fear a rant was coming, when there was a knock on the door, and a voice called, “I put him up to it, Mum.”

“Ginny?” Mrs. Weasley rushed to open the door and found her daughter standing just outside. “What is the meaning of this?”

“The fight was my idea,” Ginny said unabashedly. “I wanted to show you how much it was hurting us when you stopped me from writing to Harry. I knew he’d worry if he didn’t hear anything, and I knew he was already mad that we weren’t telling him anything important. He would’ve been really mad at me if I didn’t contact him when he needed it most.”

“I wouldn’t have—” Harry started.

“Yes you would’ve,” Ginny cut him off. “Maybe not as it was, but if I hadn’t been passing you information through Hermione all summer—”

“Hermione?!”

“Ginny!”

“Oops…sorry, Hermione.”

Hermione sighed as Mrs. Weasley rounded the corner to see her standing on the stairs. “It’s alright, Ginny,” she said. “Yes, Mrs. Weasley, I’ve been telling Harry everything I knew all summer, and yes, I was very careful that it couldn’t fall into the wrong hands. I thought Harry had a right to know what was happening.”

Mrs. Weasley looked unhappy with this development, but she wisely left it for later. “Well…I’m sorry Ginny. You were right. I still think I did the right thing by blocking your owls, mind you, but you were right; Harry needed to know we were alright and thinking about him. I could have…” She paused and thought for a minute. “Well, I’ve never quite agreed with Professor Dumbledore about the guards on your house not contacting you, Harry. I should’ve asked one of them to speak to you. And…and I’ll try to be more considerate of your feelings in the future.”

“Thank you, Mum. That’s all we’re asking,” Ginny said, and Harry nodded his agreement, mostly relieved that this had not turned out much worse.

“Well, I think it’s time we got back to work,” Mrs. Weasley said. Her children and Hermione groaned and trudged up the stairs. Harry was about to follow when she quietly called his name.

He paused and turned to look at her.

“There’s just one other thing I wanted to say.”

“Yes?” he said.

“Ginny’s very young, still, Harry, and I know you don’t want to hear it, but you’re not exactly grown up yourself. I can tell your both fond of each other, but…I just wanted to tell you to remember that you have time. Even with another war starting, you have time—and please don’t hurt her. She’s still my baby girl to me, and she’s been through too much already.”

Harry’s mouth felt dry. Not quite sure how he should respond, he said, “I…I’ll do my best, Mrs. Weasley.”

“Thank you, Harry. That’s all I’m asking,” she said, and they followed Ginny back to the drawing room.

* * *

It wasn’t until that evening that the teens were able to converse in private, and that after a long day of cleaning under Mrs. Weasley’s watchful eye.

“Is it just me, or is Mum trying to stop us from talking about the Order?” Ron said.

“Of course she is,” Fred replied.

“As if she could stop us,” said George.

“She certainly couldn’t stop us at school.”

“Although things would become unpleasant for everyone—”

“—if we had to wait that long.”

“It’s not like we even learnt that much,” Ginny observed. “We only learnt one new, important thing: You-Know-Who’s looking for a weapon.”

“We _think_ it’s a weapon,” Hermione corrected. “Sirius was kind of vague on that.”

“That’s what it sounded like, though,” Harry said. “And it’s something specific—something he didn’t have last time. What could it be, though? I mean, what’s worse that the Killing Curse?”

“Lots of things could be,” Hermione said. “The Cruciatus Curse is, arguably. At least the Killing Curse is quick. Poison gas so he could kill a lot of people. Magical explosives, maybe. Nuclear weapons, obviously, but I don’t think he’d have any practical use for them.”

“You-Know-Who’s all about magic, though,” Ron said. “I don’t think he’d use that muggle stuff. Could be something magical that kills a lot of people, though.”

“Spells to blow a bunch of stuff up, maybe?” Fred suggested.

“That’s what we’d do if we were evil,” added George.

Hermione shook her head: “I don’t think so. If _I_ were a Dark Lady, I’d start by reading up on every dark curse I could find, and then invent something worse.”

“But Voldemort’s not a genius Arithmancer,” Harry countered, ignoring the horrifying implications.

The Weasleys still shuddered at the name, although Ron said, “Thank Merlin,” to that idea.

“He’s still smart, though,” Hermione said. “Or so everyone says. I’d be surprised if he _couldn_ _’t_ do advanced spellcrafting, even if it’s not his speciality. It would have to be an artifact—or maybe a spell book. But something rare that you couldn’t just learn in the library.”

“I wonder if we can figure out what it is,” Harry said.

“No, we don’t have enough information,” Hermione answered. “We could look at what kinds of artifacts are out there, though. It’ll be good to know the limits of what Voldemort could possibly do regardless.”

“But how? Anything that powerful will probably be in the Restricted Section,” said Ginny. “We can’t just go looking for it there.”

“Wait, maybe we don’t have to,” Ron spoke up. “What about how we looked up the Philosopher’s Stone back in first year?”

“Come again?” asked Fred.

“Of course!” Hermione exclaimed. “We don’t need to look in the Restricted Section just to figure out the limits of magic. We need to look at _legends_ —old stories, maybe even ones that aren’t believed anymore. Look for artifacts that _could_ be the kind of thing Voldemort’s looking for. You should ask Luna to help when you get to school, too, Ginny. She loves that weird legendary stuff. Great idea, Ron.”

George whistled. “Mark it on the calendar, Fred,” he said. “Ron got a great idea.”

“Oi!” Ron whacked him in the back of the head.

* * *

Everyone except Mrs. Weasley was surprised when Professor Dumbledore paid a visit to Grimmauld Place the next morning. Hermione froze when she came downstairs at Mrs. Weasley’s call and saw him.

“Professor! Hello,” she said. “I’ll go find Harry for you—”

“No, Miss Granger, that will not be necessary,” the old wizard said calmly. “I came to speak to you and Miss Weasley.”

Hermione was even more surprised, but when Mrs. Weasley joined the three of them, she started to get an inkling of what was going on. Ginny must have, too, because she quickly said, “Mum, what did you tell Professor Dumbledore?”

“Only what I needed to, Ginevra,” she said distantly. “We just want to make sure Harry is safe.”

Ginny tensed at hearing her full name. Hermione also grew a little tense, anticipating a serious confrontation, but she wasn’t too worried. She was confident she could explain things, even if the adults were a little unhappy with it.

“Please sit,” Dumbledore said. They did. “Now, Miss Weasley, I was disappointed to learn yesterday that you have been sending information about the Order to Mr. Potter against my advice.”

Hermione could see a silent scoff on Ginny’s face. Dumbledore had a gift for spin. (He _was_ a politician, after all.) He’d practically ordered them not to tell Harry anything, and if he hadn’t, Mrs. Weasley certainly had.

“Technically, I only sent it to Hermione,” Ginny said.

“Ginevra…” Mrs. Wealsey warned.

“But you _did_ pass that information on to Mr. Potter, did you not, Miss Granger?” Dumbledore replied.

“Yes, sir, I did,” Hermione said unrepentantly.

“And you _knew_ she was doing so, Miss Weasley.”

“Yes,” Ginny muttered, looking a little ashamed at that.

“What’s going on here?” Sirius had entered the room. He shot Dumbledore a very pointed expression.

Mrs. Weasley hid a faint scowl. Her difference of opinion with Sirius about how to raise Harry was still simmering.

“Sirius, we were discussing Miss Weasley’s and Miss Granger’s communication with Harry this summer,” Dumbledore said. “Molly and I had some concerns about it.”

“Well, don’t mind if I listen in,” he said, sitting beside them. “I think I have an interest in this, after all.”

“Fine, Sirius,” Mrs. Weasley muttered reluctantly. “Young lady, I told you not to tell Harry anything more than he needs to know—” she started.

“Yes, because Professor Dumbledore didn’t trust owls,” Ginny said. But Harry explained yesterday why it made things worse to keep him in the dark.” Mrs. Weasley nodded an admission. “You read over my letters to Harry,” Ginny continued, “but you didn’t stop me from owling Hermione, so I told her instead, and she said she could pass it along safely.”

“And that is the other reason I came,” Dumbledore cut in. He turned to Hermione, and his eyes seemed to bore into her skull. “I am especially disappointed in you, Miss Granger. You promised me that you would not tell Harry any important information—”

“Excuse me, Professor, but no I didn’t.”

“What?” he said.

“What?” Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and Sirius repeated.

“Surely you remember—” Dumbledore started.

“Yes, I do remember, Professor,” Hermione said evenly, “but that was not what I promised. My exact words were, ‘I promise I will not risk sending Harry any sensitive information that could be intercepted.’ I sent Harry information in a way that could _not_ be intercepted—by magical or muggle means.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose. He clearly hadn’t considered that possibility, which was strange. He seemed a paradox, Hermione thought in the back of her mind. He could be a textbook politician when he wanted to be, but he seemed very trusting of other people not to be. Or perhaps he just wasn’t used to being challenged.

“Oh?” Mrs. Weasley said, looming over her. “And you think found a way to do that that Professor Dumbledore didn’t?”

“Mrs. Weasley, I have a _house elf_ in my employ,” Hermione said indignantly. “If you tell me that Dobby could have been intercepted popping directly from my house to Harry’s house with a letter, then I will apologise.”

Sirius started laughing, and Dumbledore’s mouth hung open. “Of course,” the old wizard mused. “It is often the simplest solutions that are the most effective—and the most easily overlooked. But still, I wish you had consulted me before you did that, Miss Granger.”

Hermione couldn’t believe her ears. Did he _want_ to keep Harry in the dark? “Professor,” she said. “I promised I would not risk having any sensitive information intercepted—which you accepted—and I kept that promise. Now, if there was some other reason you didn’t want Harry to know certain things for his own sake—which I would find frankly baffling—you should have told me that outright.” _Was there?_ was clearly implied.

Dumbledore looked very uncomfortable, as if he were searching for a response, or he didn’t want to tell her his real reasoning. “I was concerned about Harry’s reaction to some of the information,” he admitted. “If he were to do anything reckless, there could be grave consequences.”

“Well, with all due respect, Professor, I think Harry’s reaction to not being told anything might have been worse.”

“Then I suspect we both did as we saw most fit in regard to Mr. Potter’s best interest,” he said. That would have been a lot more comforting to Hermione if she hadn’t heard him say something very similar about Fudge last June. “In any case, he now knows as much as you do, and that by design, now, so the matter is moot.”

Hermione just stared at him. She had a bad feeling Dumbledore wasn’t telling her something important that would come back to bite her, but she couldn’t think of any other way to get it out of him just now.

“Although I do have to ask,” Dumbledore went on. “Did you have anything to do with this, Sirius?”

“No, but good on them. As long as they were safe about it, I think it’s good they kept Harry in the loop. Don’t you?”

“I think…” Dumbledore paused and considered. “I think this conversation would be better continued in private.”

Mrs. Weasley took the hint and ushered Ginny and Hermione out of the room, muttering to herself about teenagers always thinking they know best, leaving Sirius and Dumbledore alone.

“You can’t go on keeping Harry in the dark like this,” Sirius said firmly.

“You know perfectly well why it is dangerous for him to know too much, Sirius,” Dumbledore replied.

“Then start him learning Occlumency _now_ instead of waiting for something to happen.”

“It is not that simple, or I would have. Only Alastor, Severus, and I are able to teach him within the Order, and all three of us are unsuitable for that very same reason.”

“Then do _something_. Is your brother any good at it, maybe? One of the other teachers? Former teachers? Slughorn always seemed pretty bright with that kind of thing. Hell, even that Fleur girl would give him something to train against. Isn’t he going to have to learn it eventually, no matter what happens?”

“If I can complete certain other tasks in time, it may not be necessary,” Dumbledore said, though he looked strangely uncertain about his words.

Sirius seized on that: “That’s no reason not to prepare him, Albus, and you know it! Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst, right?”

“Sirius, I don’t think you realise how fine a line I am walking,” Dumbledore said, all pretence of geniality gone from his voice. “Every path before me carries with it a serious risk of hindering our ability to fight Voldemort—of hindering _Harry_ _’s_ ability to protect himself—and information itself is the deadliest weapon at Voldemort’s disposal. I am trying to find the path that carries the least risk—to Harry and to the Order. But it will not be the easiest path, and it will certainly not be the path without secrets. If you cannot accept this, then we have nothing more to say to each other.”

Sirius glared at him: “I’m not convinced you’ve found the right path just now.”

Dumbledore sighed. “Neither am I. I will speak to Severus again to see if we can find another solution. But for now I must ask that you continue to resist the temptation to tell Harry more than he already knows.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, “but I’m going to hold you to that promise.”

“I expect nothing less.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I solemnly swear that I am not JK Rowling and do not own Harry Potter.
> 
> To my surprise, Humperdinck is an actual, real-world German surname.
> 
> Kudos to coolmon16 for being the only reviewer to predict the ending of this chapter.

It took the entire weekend to fully decontaminate the drawing room. Harry was unhappy that Professor Dumbledore had left without talking to him, but he was soon too busy to think about it. By Monday morning, the only undesirable things left were a tapestry of the Black Family Tree and a writing desk that sounded like it was occupied by a Boggart. Most of the items that looked valuable and/or dangerous were stored up in the attic for Bill to take a look at later if he had the time.

Kreacher fought them passive-aggressively by trying to steal back anything they tried to throw away. Nothing seemed to make the old elf more pleasant. Dobby was passive-aggressive towards _him_ , since they disagreed so much with each other’s lifestyle choices. Sirius tried to be more civil with him, but Kreacher just laughed at him. Kreacher knew he was really the one in control of that relationship because Sirius couldn’t afford to free him. And nothing in Hermione’s spectrum of nice would convince him to answer a muggle-born with anything but insults. Ultimately, Kreacher would need serious counselling, and they couldn’t help someone who didn’t want to be helped.

On Monday, they took a day off to celebrate Harry’s birthday. Despite the dilapidated accommodations, Harry enjoyed the party, especially having all his closest friends and his girlfriend there to celebrate with him. It was certainly an improvement on the Dursleys, with whom he had spent all of his birthdays before last year. For a time, he was even able to forget about his upcoming hearing and his bad dreams at night. Hermione didn’t know much about that, but her own dreams were dark enough. For the hearing, she tried to assure him that he was perfectly within his rights to use magic in self defence. She didn’t mention her worry that the Ministry might just not care.

By the day before Harry’s hearing, and after many more harrowing experiences with magical pests and cursed items, Twelve Grimmauld Place was fully cleaned except for the attic and Sirius’s brother’s old room, which he wouldn’t let anyone touch. It was that day that Hermione finally got a chance to talk to Fred and George alone and find out what they were up to. They led her into their small bedroom, which was a little awkward, but she let it go, and they pulled some assorted products from under their beds.

“We still have to hide this stuff from Mum,” Fred explained. “Legally she can’t really do anything, but she’s still Mum.”

“Yeah, it can be hard to stop her sometimes,” George agreed.

“What are you doing about money?” Hermione asked them.

“Well, it wasn’t easy, but we’ve got enough to sustain a mail-order business,” George said.

Fred nodded his agreement: “Yeah. Order forms, catalogues, shipping, materials. Can’t hire any labour—”

“—and we might be mail order for a couple years—”

“—but we’ll have our own shop eventually.”

Hermione thought that sounded pretty optimistic. “You _do_ know you’ll have competition, don’t you.”

“Of course,” they said in unison.

“But we’ve got two things going for us, though,” said Fred. “First off, being mail-order is actually a blessing in disguise. Gambol and Japes and Zonko’s don’t do delivery.”

“And the other thing is we’ve got loads of new product ideas,” George finished. “We’ve made some of them. You want to see?”

“Alright then,” Hermione said.

He looked around at the various products. “Well, there’s this one.” Hermione was surprised when he pointed to the dwarf puffskein they had found in the drawing room, which was now in a comfortable-looking nest.

“The puffskein?” she said.

“Yeah. Little guy’s doing better now.”

“Course, puffskeins are easy to care for,” Fred added. “They eat rubbish, and they rarely get sick.”

“A few of the firsties will probably have them as pets,” George continued. “We’re gonna see if they’ll let us mate Cyrano here and try to create a dwarf breed.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “You two? Animal breeding? Seriously?”

“Puffskeins are easy to breed, too,” said Fred. “We’d be hip-deep in them if they were mobile enough to roam around like cats.”

“And you know how to breed animals?” she pressed. “You know about things like linebreeding and outcrossing and humane breeding practises?”

“Er…”

“What…?”

“Humane breeding practises,” she repeated slowly. “Muggles worry about that kind of thing. There are unscrupulous people in the muggle world who run things called puppy mills and kitten mills, where dogs and cats are bred in unsanitary, overcrowded, and negligent conditions. And as a completely separate matter, they’ve also inbred some breeds so badly that they suffer serious health problems. Can you avoid all those problems doing this in a _school?_ With limited time and resources?”

The Twins stared at her. It was obvious they hadn’t thought of that.

“We…were thinking maybe we could get Hagrid to help us…” Fred said hesitantly.

“But there’s gotta be books in the library on animal breeding,” George said, cheering up.

“Yeah. And we could probably get some house elves if we need extra hands.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I’m pretty sure that’s getting outside their mandate,” she said. “Although…the elves _do_ know a lot about breeding healthy bloodlines. I’m sure they could give some good advice.”

“Great idea!” George said. He started taking notes on what she had said. “See, this is why we keep you around.”

“Excuse me! Is that all—?”

“Just kidding, Hermione. Now _these_ —” he indicated some sweets inside an old-style metal lunch pail. “Are our experimental Skiving Snackboxes.”

She raised an eyebrow at him. “Skiving Snackboxes?” she said. “What do _they_ do?”

“They make you ill,” Fred said thoughtlessly. “Not seriously ill, mind, just enough to get you out of class.”

Hermione groaned. “You shouldn’t be helping people get out of class,” she chided.

“Hey, if it’s what the market wants—”

She glared at him.

“Er—let’s trying something else. Um…aha!” He reached into something that looked like a slush pile of pranks and pulled out a bracelet. “Now this is a brilliant idea George came up with. It’s called a Daydream Charm.”

That got Hermione’s attention. She looked at the bracelet with interest. It looked like the charm bracelets that many girls wore, muggles and witches alike, except the charms were little bits of wood with runes carved on them. “It’s certainly intricate,” she said. “I didn’t know you did much with runes.”

“We don’t,” answered George, “but we do loads of charms and enchanting, and the simpler rune stuff’s not all that different. Plus there are those runes seminars Professor Babbling starting giving in our third year.”

“Right. So this a charm that…makes you daydream.”

Fred chuckled. “A little more than that. Say you’re in a boring cl—er…enjoying an afternoon in the sun, and you wonder what it’d be like to be somewhere more…interesting.”

“Like, say, having an adventure on a pirate ship with a dashing young buccaneer,” George picked up the strain with a grin. Hermione blushed a little. “All you have to do is apply a simple incantation to activate the charms, and you will enter a highly realistic daydream about swashbuckling pirates that lasts for thirty minutes.”

“ _Really?_ That sounds like extraordinary magic. You can really do all that?”

“Well, we’re working on it,” Fred answered.

“Yeah, putting it together bit by bit,” said George.

“Right now, it only lasts five minutes.”

“And anything you say in the daydream still comes out of your mouth in the real world.”

“Not very good for…relaxing in the sun, you know?”

“Still, you wanna try it out?”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and she looked between them nervously. “I assume you’ve tested it?” she said.

“Sure we have,” said Fred.

“We just want to see how it works for you—take some notes on how we can improve it.”

Hermione considered for a moment and said, “Oh, alright, then.”

George and Fred grinned maniacally. “Excellent,” they said. Fred placed the bracelet on her wrist and drew his wand. “Now, just lean back and tell us what you see… _Remittere Somnia_.”

Hermione felt an odd, fuzzy feeling in her mind, and then the world _changed_.

The new sights and sounds were clearly not reality, but close enough that it made little difference. The colours were more vibrant than real life, while the shapes were a little fuzzy, especially in her peripheral vision. Everything had a slightly airy, dream-like quality about it. She could hear seagulls squawking overhead and saw wooden planks beneath her feet.

“I’m…I’m on the deck of a ship,” she said, looking more closely at her surroundings. “I still feel like I’m sitting in your room.”

“Yeah, we’re still working on that,” George replied.

“Yeah, just sight and sound for now,” Fred confirmed. “What else do you see?”

“Well…I’m wearing a flowing red dress…My wrists are bound…”

“Oh?” George said—she was pretty sure it was George from his position. “I didn’t know you like _those_ kind of daydreams, Hermione.”

“WHAT?! NO!” She could practically see him wagging his eyebrows at her. “It’s _your_ stupid charm!”

“Ah, ah, ah,” Fred countered. “We only charmed it for “pirate adventure.” Your mind fills in the rest.”

“What? But I—” She felt the heat rush to her cheeks. She really _didn_ _’t_ like those kind of daydreams…did she? But she didn’t have time to contemplate that before she saw more movement in the fantasy. “Hold on, someone’s coming on board—” And then, she laughed because she understood _exactly_ what was going on now: “Oh my goodness, it’s the Man in Black!”

“The who?” asked George.

“Also known as the Dread Pirate Roberts, who takes no prisoners.” Perhaps she swooned a tiny bit.

“Oh? So now a strapping sailor has to defend you from him?”

“Oh, no. He’s here to _save_ me. I’ve been kidnapped by Vizzini to be married off to the wicked Prince Humperdinck.”

“What now?!” the Twins said in unison.

“It’s a muggle film,” she explained. “It makes sense now. The most popular pirate story in my childhood was _The Princess Bride._ My mind must’ve automatically gone there when the charm called for a pirate adventure. It’s not exactly like the film, but…Ha! “I am not left-handed either.” Yes!”

“Huh?”

“Sorry. The Man in Black is duelling Inigo, and they’re using all the snappy one-liners from the film.”

“Duelling?” George said. “Wands or swords?” She could hear the scratch of the quill.

“Swords, like in the film.” Soon, Inigo was defeated, and the Man in Black went on to the next challenge. “Now, he’s wrestling Fezzik. Fezzik’s much bigger, but the Man in Black is smarter. He’s got Fezzik in a choke hold… _Inconceivable_!”

“What?!”

“He won. Now he just has to beat Vizzini in a battle of wits… _to the death_.”

“Do you know what she’s talking about, Georgie?”

“Nope, I’m lost. What about you, Freddie?”

“Not a clue. But I think she’s enjoying it.”

Indeed, Hermione was giggling at the battle of wits in the dream as it reached its inevitable conclusion. “…and Vizzini says, “Never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!’” she narrated.

“O-kayyyy…”

“There, the Man in Black’s won…He’s untying me…He’s taking off his mask, and—EEP!”

She felt the heat rising to her face again, and Fred—she thought—said, “Oooo, looks like it just got personal, with as red as you’re turning. C’mon, Hermione, who is it?”

She shook her head. She couldn’t tell them. It wasn’t Cary Elwes who was under the mask. Instead, it was a strapping, idealised young man with bright red hair.

“Come on, it can’t be that bad,” George said as the redheaded dream-man leaned in for a kiss.

Hermione stripped off the bracelet—partly because it would be really awkward since she couldn’t feel anything, but mostly for more personal reasons. “Sorry, got a little more than I’d bargained for there,” she mumbled, not meeting their eyes. “I’m not sure you should be selling this to under-sixteens. Still, this is brilliant magic. How did you do it?”

George and Fred exchange a glance, and Fred said, “Well, we can’t reveal _all_ of our secrets—”

“—but we started with a very carefully-laid Confundus Charm and worked our way up from there,” George explained.

“We made it a charm bracelet because it pretty much has to be something you wear, and that won’t look suspicious to teachers.”

“Of course, boys will have to wear them on their ankles or something.”

“But it gets even better,” Fred continued.

“See this?” George pointed to one of the rune charms. “This is a power rune. The way we plan it, it’ll be good for about five uses, and then you’ll have to buy a new one from us. You can’t make your own—well, _you_ probably could…”

“And these…” Fred pointed to the other charms. “These control what kind of daydream you have. These three are “pirates,” “swordfight,” and “rescue.” If these take off like we think they will, we’ll make more charms, and you can mix and match to create your own daydreams. So if you want the pirates to fight a dragon—”

“—you just add the dragon charm from the knights fighting dragons daydream—”

“And you’re set,” they finished together.

Hermione’s jaw dropped as her mind spun with the possibilities. They watched as she stared blankly into space.

“Um, Hermione, are you okay?” George asked with concern, waving his hand in front of her face.

“You two…are… _geniuses_!” She jumped up and hugged both of them before she caught herself and stepped back uneasily from George, turning pink.

“Wow,” Fred said. “ _You_ _’re_ saying that?”

“Yes! Do you realise what you’re doing here?”

“Um…”

“You’re inventing magical virtual reality! And it _works_. You’re ahead of the _muggles_ on this, and wizards are hardly ever ahead of muggles on any kind of technology. A few more bells and whistles, some computer programming, a decent interface system—and you could create the magical Super Nintendo—or maybe even a holodeck…or maybe it’ll be something completely different that I can’t even think of right now.”

The Twins stared at her again.

“Okay, I think you just stopped using real words about a minute ago,” Fred said.

“No, I’m serious,” she said. She tried to think of an analogy they would understand. “Look, say you wanted to fly in the Quidditch World Cup. You’d make a charm bracelet to do that, right?”

“Uh huh,” George said.

“Okay, but you don’t just want to have a daydream about winning it. You want to make an actual game out of it. So you set the runes so that the other team plays at a certain skill level—not as good as the real life team, but good enough that it takes real skill to beat them. In fact, if the charms on the Bludgers and the Snitch aren’t too complicated, you could add those to make them behave realistically in the daydream, and not just how the user _thinks_ they should act.”

This time it was Fred’s and George’s jaws that dropped.

“Hermione…I could kiss you right now,” Fred stammered.

“Oi!” George yelled defensively.

“Please don’t,” she agreed. It was already complicated enough with one twin.

“But seriously, we never would’ve thought of that in a million years!” Fred exclaimed.

“I don’t think it’s that big a leap,” she said. “Remind me to introduce you to muggle video games sometime. They’ve been doing it for years.”

“It’s not just the game,” George corrected. “If you can make daydream-Bludgers behave like _real_ Bludgers, you could use it for Quidditch training.”

“Oh!” she said in surprise. “Well, I don’t know about that. It’s a valid idea, but you won’t build up any muscle that way, and I doubt you’ll build up coordination as well as the real thing, either.”

“Oh,” he said, disappointed. “Well, still, this changes everything. We can do way more than we thought if that works.”

“Might take us years to get there—,” Fred added.

“—but it’ll definitely be a bestseller.”

“What have we been saying four years, brother?”

“Our little Hermione’s been shaking things up since day one,” recalled George.

“And don’t you forget it,” she said cheekily before she squeaked as they grabbed her in a four-armed hug.

* * *

Hermione was awakened on the day of Harry’s hearing by a loud rant from Mrs. Weasley. She missed the beginning of it, but by the time she and Ginny descended, bleary-eyed, to the kitchen, she was warmed up and saying things about the Minister that Hermione was shocked to hear her say about any authority figure.

“—if I get my hands on that two-faced, power-mad, kangaroo of an adjudicator—”

“Mum?” Ginny interrupted sleepily. “What happened?”

Mrs. Weasley spun around and blushed at being overheard by her daughter. “Ginny, Hermione, I didn’t hear you come in,” she said. Both girls wisely didn’t speak a word as to why. “Please excuse me. It’s just that our _esteemed_ Minster saw fit to change the time and location of Harry’s hearing. _This_ arrived ten minutes after he left with your father and Sirius.”

She held out a crumpled letter. Hermione took it and read it over with Ginny looking over her shoulder. The hearing had been moved an hour earlier, from nine o’clock to eight, and the location was no longer in the Improper Use of Magic Office, but an actual courtroom.

“Eight o’clock?” Hermione checked the clock. “That’s in ten minutes! Is he _trying_ to—Of course, he _is_ trying to make Harry miss the hearing.”

“He won’t miss it,” Remus assured them from the kitchen table. “He might be a few minutes late, which won’t look good for him, but he won’t miss it. It’s a good thing he and Sirius went at the same time Arthur did, though. The worrying thing is that they moved it down to Courtroom Ten.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Hermione asked. “In the muggle world, it would be pretty much automatic to have it in a courtroom.”

He shook his head: “Not in the magical world. That courtroom is for trials in front of the entire Wizengamot. They only do it for the really big cases. I don’t think it’s been used at all since the last war. It means Fudge is politicising this hearing even more than we thought.”

“Let me guess,” Hermione said. “Most of the Wizengamot only get their information from the _Daily Prophet_?” She knew a thing or two about how the government of Magical Britain was set up.

“Right in one. So Fudge has a better chance of convicting him than if it’s just Amelia Bones.”

“But he has no idea!” Ginny exclaimed. “Isn’t there anything we can do?”

“Don’t worry,” Remus said. “Professor Dumbledore will be there. He anticipated Fudge might do something like this. He’ll sort it out.”

Hermione tried to relax during the next hour or so, but she wasn’t having much luck, and Ginny didn’t look like she was doing any better. The law was clearly on Harry’s side, but that didn’t mean much when corrupt politicians got involved. What would happen if Harry was expelled? He’d lose his wand, certainly—his holly wand that conveyed a special protection against Voldemort—and he’d be forbidden from carrying another one. He’d have to live with Sirius—or would Dumbledore make him go back to the Dursleys for greater safety? That assuredly wouldn’t end well. Could he possibly go to school overseas? Even come to Beauxbatons with her? Dumbledore had the ear of Madame Maxime. If the two of them together could convince the French Ministry that Harry was wrongfully convicted, there would be a chance. Selfishly, Hermione thought she would like that, to have her best friend down there, but she was worried about the much greater chance that he would be blocked from his education at least until Voldemort showed himself—and by then, it might be too late.

Finally, Harry reappeared, escorted by Sirius and Mr. Weasley as he entered the kitchen. Everyone stared as he stood there with a blank look on his face.

 _“Well?”_ Ginny demanded.

“Cleared,” he said. “Of all charges.”

“Woo!” Ginny yelled. She ran over and kissed him.

“I knew it!” Ron yelled.

Hermione slumped in her chair with relief. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said. “I knew they didn’t have a legal leg to stand on. Did they give you a lot of trouble? We found out they changed the time and location.”

Fred and George started doing something that looked like a war dance to a chant of _“He got off, he got off, he got off—”_

“Some,” Harry said. “We got there about five minutes late. Mr. Weasley wasn’t allowed in. They didn’t want to let Sirius in, either, but he used some legal trick to get past them.”

“It wasn’t a trick,” Sirius cut in. “I just told them they couldn’t try him as an adult on an underage magic charge.”

“Er, right. So it looked bad at first because I didn’t have any witnesses. It turns out muggles can’t see dementors. And they brought up both of my previous violation from Dobby, even though I’d been cleared.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Hermione groaned.

Ginny had joined in the Twins’ chant: _“He got off, he got off, he got off—”_

“That’s enough, Fred, George, Ginny,” Mrs. Weasley scolded.

“Yeah. Luckily, Dumbledore showed up three hours early “by a happy accident,” and he brought Old Figgy, as a witness,” Sirius said.

“That Mrs. Figg person?” Hermione asked.

“Right. It wasn’t easy, though. Fudge tried to block everything. Didn’t want her to testify—”

“Wouldn’t let me answer questions—” Harry added. “Didn’t want to believe about the dementors.”

“And Dumbledore took Fudge apart six ways to Sunday about not following proper procedure,” Sirius finished with a grin. “I think that’s what really got him off.”

 _“He got off, he got off, he got off—_ C’mon, Hermione!”

“No, thank you, Fred,” she said as he tried to take her arm. “My God, Harry, he completely railroaded you! That’s not the kind of thing you expect to see in a First World country. Not to mention how the dementors found you in the first place. Your relatives’ house was supposed to be safe! Dumbledore said so!”

“Well, even the best can get like that if they turn paranoid. At least Harry _got_ a trial,” Sirius said a little sulkily.

Harry more or less ignored that last bit. “I just wish Dumbledore had actually talked to me,” he mumbled. “Or even _looked_ at me—ouch!” He clapped a hand to his forehead.”

“What is it?” Hermione said.

“Scar—but it happens all the time now—now _he_ _’s_ back.”

“Dumbledore’s got a lot on his plate, Harry,” Sirius said. “I had a talk with him for you, though. He’s gonna try to make some better arrangements for you.”

Harry gave his godfather a weak smile: “Thanks, Sirius.”

_“HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF, HE GOT OFF—”_

“SHUT UP!” roared Mrs. Weasley.

* * *

A week after Harry’s hearing, everything changed for Hermione. The day started out normal enough, and she planned to finally wrap up one of her special projects. She asked Harry to bring the Marauder’s Map to look it over with Sirius and Remus, and she called Fred and George, too, since they’d prank her if she didn’t let them in on something like this.

“I’ve got nearly everything I need to create my own map of Beauxbatons when I go back next month,” she said, and she unfolded her own sample map that she had made by casting detection spells over her dorms at Beauxbatons. “This is just a partial version. I haven’t tied it into the wards yet, although I think I know how, and I had to freeze it before the school year ended because the detection spells don’t work outside of France—something about the national rune network, I think—but at least you can see what I’m doing.” Her map showed a still image of the fourth-year dorms at Beauxbatons with dots of different colours, each with a small name written next to it.

“So I colour-coded the dots,” she explained. “Students who are residents of the dorms show up in black—for the whole school, I’d just make it all students in black—teachers are blue, and visitors are red.”

“Colours?” Sirius said in surprise. “Moony, why didn’t we think of that?”

“No idea. I guess we never thought we needed it,” Remus answered. “We mainly used our Map to hide from _everybody_.”

“I can choose to show particular groups of people for easier readability,” Hermione went on. There was a row of coloured circles along the right-hand edge of the parchment. She tapped the black circle, and the black dots vanished, leaving the red and blue ones. The black circle was replaced by a black outline. She tapped it again, and the black dots reappeared. “I can zoom in.” She tapped a symbol that looked like a magnifying glass with a plus sign inside it, and the image vanished and redrew itself doubled in scale.

Remus’s jaw dropped. “Merlin’s beard, why didn’t we think of that, Padfoot? That would’ve made things so much easier than trying to read that tiny print.”

“And I can pan the image,” Hermione continued. Four arrows appeared, one at each edge of the page. She tapped one of them, and the map vanished again and redrew itself in a new position half a page to the left.

“What’s that green line?” Harry asked, pointing to a dotted line that squiggled around the page.

“That’s me. I wanted to put in a playback function, where you could go back and show where people were at an earlier time, but the map can’t store very much memory. So instead, I made it so you can select a person, and it’ll draw a trail on the map wherever they go.” She pointed to where the line ended at a special green dot labelled “Hermione Granger.”

The Twins’ jaws dropped, too. “That would be so much easier than watching all day to see where people were!” Fred exclaimed.

“Why didn’t you two think of that?” George asked Sirius and Remus, who were too speechless to respond by now.

Hermione grinned. “Also, I added this feature this summer,” she said. She tapped another symbol with her wand, and her label changed to “Hermione Jean Granger.” “It can display full names so we don’t have that Senior-Junior problem Harry had last term.”

“Hermione, this is _incredible_ ,” Remus said in awe. “Just tapping your wand to little symbols and making it do things we never even thought of—how did you do all this?”

“It’s called a graphical user interface. It hadn’t been invented yet when you made your map, but most muggle computers use it now. It’s just like how they say a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, interacting by using pictures is a lot easier and more efficient than using words. Your map already has most of the information it needs to do these this. It’s just a matter of changing how it draws things.”

“Damn,” Sirius said. “It’s a shame we sealed the Marauder’s Map so no one could tamper with it. This would’ve been brilliant.”

“This is a work of art, Hermione,” Remus agreed. “I knew you were brilliant, but somehow, I never really expected you to blow right past us like this.”

“Do you think you could make a map of Hogwarts like this?” asked George.

She shook her head: “No. In principle, yes, but I’d have to get into the castle to tie it to the wards. Sorry.”

“Still, to have one of Beauxbatons…” Remus trailed off. “So if you can do all that, what do you need our help with?”

“Well, the most important thing is that right now, I can’t get the Homonculous Charm to work through magical forms of concealment. I made it work for elves, ghosts, and cats by reading their magical signatures directly and adjusting the arithmantic terms to match, but I wanted to find out how you got it to work for animagi, invisibility cloaks, and Polyjuice…and Metamorphmagi,” she added remembering Tonks. “That could be important in the future, after all.”

“Yes, it certainly could,” Remus said.

“Now, hold on a minute, Moony,” Sirius cut him off. “We’ve told her before we can’t just tell her Marauder secrets.”

“Yes, but these are more serious times, Padfoot. And who knows? Harry might be relying on her in the future.”

“Hmm. It’s quite the conundrum.” Sirius stroked his short beard, which was far less disconcerting than when Dumbledore did it. “We _could_ induct Miss Granger into the Marauders.”

“But she doesn’t have an animagus form. And her reputation as a prankster is a bit weak…Alright, how about this, Hermione? We’ll compromise. We’ll tell you what you need to know, but we want to see if you can figure it out from the Map itself, first.”

“Oh…” Hermione blinked for a moment, trying to sort out the rambling conversation. Sirius and Remus were starting to sound a little like George and Fred. “Well, I can try, but your map doesn’t like being probed much.”

“Who does?” Sirius said with a chuckle. “But I think you can pull it off if you talk to it right.”

“Oh, very well.” Hermione tapped her wand to the blank map and said, “I solemnly swear that I am up to no good.” The Map appeared, and she decided to try one of the magic manipulation spells she had learnt last year: _“Stratuséparé.”_

Layers of enchantments floated up and hovered above the Map—sheets of magic in different colours, some covered in runes and others in scrawling handwriting. But before she could read any of them clearly, all of the layers clamped back down and vanished, as she suspected they would from her prior studies, and the map of Hogwarts castle was replaced by writing:

 

_Mr. Prongs detects the use of unauthorised spell manipulation on the Marauder_ _’s Map._

_Mr. Moony expresses surprise that anyone would think such a laughably simple trick would work._

_Mr. Padfoot agrees with Mr. Moony and requests that meddling Arithmancy students quit messing with our stuff._

_Mr. Wormtail requests the intruder identify himself or herself and explain why they wish to access the Map._

 

“Ugh,” Sirius grunted at seeing Wormtail’s name. “Can’t we get him off of there?”

“You’re the one who just said we sealed the Map,” Remus chided.

Hermione’s mouth hung open for a moment as she considered how to proceed. She lifted her wand from the parchment and said, “Will it remember my previous conversation with it?”

“No,” Remus said. “No memory. We programmed it to recognise a few people, and that’s it.”

“Alright, then…” She got an idea and tapped her wand to the parchment again: “My name is…Lady Archimedes. And a wise mentor once told me, ‘Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can’t see where it keeps its brain.’”

The ink vanished for a minute before new writing appeared:

 

_Mr. Moony agrees with Lady Archimedes that this is indeed wise advice._

_Mr. Padfoot advises Lady Archimedes to be more adventurous than that if she wishes to get anywhere as a Marauder._

_Mr. Wormtail would like to point out to his colleagues that the name Lady Archimedes is ambiguous with regard to gender, and they should be more careful not to offend him or her._

_Mr. Prongs bids Lady Archimedes good day and advises him or her that Marauders secrets are not available to the general public._

Hermione grimaced at the traitor being the most considerate of the bunch, but she pressed on: “I should think that the ‘Lady’ part of my name would be clear enough. And I’ve figured out a few of your secrets already.”

 

_Mr. Wormtail apologises for his earlier confusion and thanks Ms. Archimedes for her clarification._

_Mr. Prongs approves of Ms. Archimedes_ _’s use of a code-name but suggests that her claim is an audacious ruse reminiscent of his own exaggerations._

_Mr. Padfoot agrees with Mr. Prongs and demands Ms. Archimedes put her money where her mouth is._

_Mr. Moony agrees with his colleagues and challenges Ms. Archimedes to prove her knowledge of Marauders secrets._

Hermione’s lips curled into a smirk as she rubbed her findings in the Map’s proverbial faces: “The Map works by tying a Homonculous Charm into the castle wards. You got ghosts to show up by copying their magical signature into the arithmantic expansion of the charm. You have several high-powered spells extracting information from the wards, a hidden rune layer to convert it into more useful information, and a set of simple artistic charms to draw it in map form. From the look of things, you’re talking to me with a simple interface that detects certain spells, words, and phrases spoken in the presence of a wand and writes down pre-prepared responses. It’s intent-based so it’s more flexible than writing out every possible combination. It’s similar to the enchantments used to make magical portraits, but they would have to have been heavily modified to work with the written word and to stick to your formal-speaking Marauders’ personas.”

The Map went blank for a minute, as if stunned speechless. Even Sirius and Remus looked surprised by that last deduction, but it wasn’t that hard. Simple computer conversation programs like ELIZA had been around for years in the muggle world. Eventually, the writing on the Map reappeared, not orderly, but jumbled together all at once, as if she’d stumped its programming and caused it to produce an error, although the words were still coherent:

 

_Mr. Prongs admonishes Mr. Moony for not hiding our secrets better from intruders._

_Mr. Moony defends his runes and arithmancy skills and proposes that Ms. Archimedes had help learning our secrets._

_Mr. Wormtail points out that what one student can hide, an equally talented student can reveal and would like to enquire as to Ms. Archimedes_ _’s own runes and arithmancy skills._

_Mr. Padfoot demands Ms. Archimedes state her intentions regarding the Marauder_ _’s Map if she thinks she can investigate into it so brazenly._

 

“Hmm…” Hermione said. “Would they react well if I said I wanted to make a better map?”

Sirius whistled softly. “I don’t know. We were pretty arrogant back then. We’d probably just challenge you to do it all yourself.”

“Ah,” she groaned. She considered her answer and spoke to the Map again. “I’ve passed fourth year runes, and I just took the N.E.W.T. in Arithmancy as an independent study because I’m just that good,” she grinned. “And I think I can help the _real_ Marauders solve their Polyjuice problem.”

 

_Mr. Prongs is impressed by a boast worthy of himself._

_Mr. Wormtail is sceptical of Ms. Archimedes_ _’s claims because of said resemblance to Mr. Prongs’s antics._

_Mr. Padfoot is sceptical that the real Marauders would allow a lady friend such intimate access to the Marauder_ _’s Map._

_Mr. Moony would like to get to the point already and ask,_ _“What Polyjuice problem?”_

Hermione glared at Sirius.

“What? I was sixteen!” he defended himself.

She rolled her eyes and continued: “The Map can see through Polyjuice Potion, but it doesn’t tell you when it’s in use. A dark wizard with an unassuming name could kidnap and disguise himself as the Defence Professor, and you’d never know it until it was too late.”

 

_Mr. Moony enquires as to when that would ever be a problem._

To Hermione’s surprise, no other words seemed forthcoming. “Is it supposed to do that?” she asked. She hoped she hadn’t broken it.

“You’re pretty far outside what the charms were intended to do,” the real Moony answered. “I’m not surprised it started acting strange.”

“Oh. Well…” She tapped her wand again and said sternly, “It happened this past year.”

 

_Mr. Prongs withdraws his objection to allowing Ms. Archimedes access to the Map on the grounds that she can clearly get in as much trouble as we can._

_Mr. Padfoot also withdraws his objection and enquires as to whether Ms. Archimedes is dating one of the Marauders._

Hermione flushed pink and went straight to magenta when she glanced at Sirius. That wasn’t something she wanted to think about. She flailed about for a moment, grasping for an answer before it came to her: “A lady doesn’t kiss and tell.”

The Map seemingly accepted that and continued:

 

_Mr. Wormtail sustains his objection on the grounds that this could all be an elaborate ruse._

_You would,_ Hermione thought.

 

_Mr. Moony enquires as to how Ms. Archimedes would solve the alleged Polyjuice problem._

 

“Well, from what I know so far, I suspect it’s a simple matter of adding an extra Drawing Charm to draw a different symbol when Polyjuice is detected—or any concealment, for that matter. I’ve already been playing with Drawing Charms and produced similar results. But I need to see how the Homonculous Charm is tied into the identification wards and presumably hack in the arithmantic expansion for Polyjuice Potion to figure out how to implement it.”

There was a long pause from the Map, but finally, the reply came:

 

_Mr. Moony overrules Mr. Wormtail on the grounds that Ms. Archimedes could probably create her own map at the rate she_ _’s going._

 

And just like that, runes appeared across the pages of the Map and revealed its inner workings for all to see.

“Whoa,” Sirius, Remus, Fred, and George all said at once.

“I never thought I’d see someone just talk their way through it like that,” Remus said. “Even we had trouble with it when we were making the thing.”

“Are you sure we can’t make her a Marauder?” Sirius asked. “Even the Map thinks she’s worthy.”

“Well, maybe,” Remus said, “although at this point, I’m not sure she _needs_ us.”

Hermione started happily analysing the rune work on the Map, now that she could finally see it clearly. “Say, Ron, you wanna give me a hand with this?”

Ron looked up from the Quidditch stats he was poring over. “What? Me?” he said.

“Yes, you’ve got as much of a knack for runes as I do. Come take a look.”

“Yet another swotty overachiever in the family,” Fred said melodramatically.

“Where did we go wrong?” George said.

Ron and Hermione whacked them both in the backs of their heads. “Alright, then,” Ron said. “You know, I always wanted to get a look at this thing. So this stuff looks like something’s feeding into it…there’s a bunch of stuff—this looks like your arithmancy stuff. It’s taking whatever’s being fed in and doing a bunch of calculations.”

“Yes, that’ll be the data from the identification wards being run through the kernel to turn it into a form the user interface can use.”

“Huh?” Ron said.

“Never mind. Just look for something that identifies different types of magical signatures.”

“Okay…” Ron muttered names of runes under his breath as he scanned over the parchment. He didn’t have as much technical precision or depth of knowledge as Hermione, but he had a head for languages, and he was surprisingly adept at getting the gist of an arrangement of runes from a lazy once-over. It made him quick in a way that she wasn’t. A skill honed over many years, she was sure he would claim. “There!” He pointed to a particular cluster that had several arithmantic formulae written into it. “That’s taking the…er, data and checking for certain patterns. Don’t ask me what patterns those are, though. That’s your thing.”

Hermione mentally converted the formulae to the way she had written them on her map while Ron surveyed the rest of the runes. To her surprise, he started tapping with his wand and uncovered hidden handwriting, presumably how the messages to the reader were created. “Okay,” she muttered to herself, “so that’s humans…that one is ghosts…that one—those are transfiguration equations…holy cricket, that must be animagi—”

Suddenly, Ron burst out laughing so hard that he fell over.

“Ron,” Hermione spoke over his squawking. “Ronald! What did you do, put a Laughing Jinx on it?” she demanded of the alleged adults in the room.

“No,” Remus said, “he must’ve just seen—”

“M-Mer-Merlin’s b-beard,” Ron stammered, gasping for breath. “Y-you _actually_ charmed it to insult Snape?”

Remus and Sirius sniggered at that. “Oh, _that_ _’s_ what he found,” Sirius said. “That was a good one.”

Hermione shoved Ron aside and looked at what he had uncovered: _“Mr. Moony presents his compliments to Mr. Snape and begs him to keep his abnormally large nose out of other people’s business.”_

Fred and George collapsed in laughter as well. Hermione didn’t think it was nearly as funny, but even she found herself giggling. “It figures,” she said. “You two _actually_ went to the trouble to charm it to insult him in particular?”

“Hey, we really couldn’t stand him,” Sirius defended himself. “Oi, Harry, you wanna take a look?” he called across the room. “It’s charmed to asked your mum on a date, too.”

Harry blushed red, but Hermione saved him when she said, “ _Excuse me,_ but getting back to the point, I’m looking at these formulae, and there are a bunch of arithmantic expansions of magical signatures already written in here. This is animagi, this looks like the kind of number theory you get in potions, so that should be Polyjuice, I _think_ this one is disillusionment. How do you already have all this?”

“Well, it’s pretty simple. The Hogwarts identification wards can see through pretty much any concealment,” Remus explained, “but we couldn’t get the Map to show what they told it without knowing what to look for. Normally the wards themselves don’t do much. So many people go in and out of the castle, and so many different magics are used in there every day that there aren’t really any alarms set or anything like that, but the information was there.”

“Yeah, sorry to be anticlimactic, but we figured out all those forms of concealment by reading the magical signatures directly like you did for ghosts and elves,” Sirius agreed. “Animagi, Polyjuice, Disillusionment—course, it was a pain in the arse to figure out Prongs’s invisibility cloak…actually, how _did_ we figure that out, Moony?”

“We didn’t,” Remus said flatly. “It didn’t behave like a regular invisibility cloak. Nothing we did would get it to show up. The thing was, its invisibility was _too_ perfect. It left a blank spot in the wards, so in the end, we identified it by the hole it left.”

That was odd, Hermione thought. She didn’t know of any artifacts that blocked all magic like that. She wondered if Mad-Eye Moody could actually see through it, or if he saw it the same way—a blank spot to an eye that normally saw _everything_.

“Well, now we’re getting somewhere,” Hermione said, scribbling down formulae. “But when did you brew Polyjuice?”

Remus almost giggled as he remembered: “That was James’s harebrained scheme to sneak into Lily’s dorm in sixth year. Fun fact: it turns out the wards will let you in if you’re transformed into a girl, but as soon as you change back, they’ll throw you out the door.”

“Yes, Lady Ravenclaw was smarter than any lovesick teenage boy there ever was,” Sirius said with an exaggerated air of resentment.

“As it should be,” Hermione said primly. “Let’s see. Is that one Metamorphmagi?”

Sirius leaned over to see: “Yes. We got that one when I visited little Tonks over the summer.”

“And this one?” She pointed to the next line.

“Filch’s cat.”

“We never did understand that one,” George pointed out. “Mrs. Norris is the only cat that ever shows up, and you would’ve never even met her.”

“It’s not Mrs. Norris,” Remus corrected conspiratorially. “It’s her _collar_.”

“Her collar?” George and Fred said in unison.

“Of course,” Remus said. “It has a Homing Charm on it. That’s how Filch always shows up where she is.” All of the teens’ jaws dropped—even Hermione’s. “Didn’t you know that?”

“No. No idea,” Hermione said. “So what’s this last one?”

“Peeves,” Sirius and Remus said together.

“Peeves…? How did you get him to sit still long enough to copy his magical signature?”

Sirius laughed: “Oh, that’s a funny story. See, Moony got the idea to copy a muggle cartoon he saw once.”

Remus smirked as he told the story: “We propped up a box on a stick and put a case of dungbombs under it as bait and hid around the corner. When he went to grab them, we dropped the box on him.”

Hermione gave them a confused look. “But Peeves is a spirit. He could just phase right through the box,” she said.

“Yes, but Peeves is practically a cartoon character himself. He was too thick to realise he could get out until we surrounded him and got a good reading.”

“Of course, once _did_ he realise he could get out, he blew up the entire case of dungbombs in our faces,” Sirius added with a grin. “Oh, we paid for that one.”

“Well,” Hermione said, giggling again, “I think that’s all I need to finish my own map. Thank you so much. You know, I’d like to be able to mark possessed people on the map, too. We could’ve used that feature in our first year. But I don’t think I’ll get the chance—”

_POP!_

“Eep!” Hermione jumped when a very flustered-looking house elf appeared in the middle of the room. “Dobby? What’s happening? Is something wrong?”

“Please be pardoning Dobby, Miss Hermione,” he said. “Your parents is being very upset. They is wanting you to read these.”

Dobby handed over three letters, which she took with a confused expression. Her confusion only grew when she read the first one:

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_You need to come home right away. These letters arrived for you at home on Tuesday. We assume it_ _’s because of those magical protections where you’re staying that they came here instead of going straight to you, but we’re sending them with Dobby, since regular post owls can’t get to you. Needless to say, we are proud of you about the first one, but we are not happy about the second, and we want answers. We’ll discuss this when you get home._

_Love from,_

_Mum and Dad_

“That’s strange,” Remus said. “I wonder what’s so urgent.”

“I don’t know. I don’t know why I’d be receiving letters over the summer. I told everyone I write to I’d be out of contact. She opened the second letter and read it:

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_We are pleased to inform you that you have been selected as the co-winner of Transfiguration Today_ _’s Most Promising Newcomer Award, alongside Rebecca Gamp, for your work on discovering the sixth exception to Gamp’s Law of Elemental Transfiguration. This is truly extraordinary work and is most worthy of recognition. We invite you to attend an award ceremony at noon on the twenty-sixth of August at our headquarters at 42 Bagshot Row in Hogsmeade._

_Kindest regards,_

_Circe Sisenna_

_Lead Editor_

_Transfiguration Today_

“Transfiguration Today?” said Fred.

“That’s amazing!” George finished.

“That’s truly extraordinary, Hermione,” Remus said. “Professor McGonagall won that award when she finished school.”

“Yeah, but Mad-Eye will have a field day checking them for funny business,” Sirius teased.

Hermione was indeed pleased, but she was still concerned. Mum and Dad had said there was a problem with the last letter. Nervously, she unfolded it and read.

Then, the colour drained from her face, and she stood still, silent and shaking.

“Hermione?” Ron said worriedly. She didn’t respond.

“Hermione, what is it?” George said.

Hermione let the letter fall to the table so they could see:

 

_Dear Miss Granger,_

_We are writing to inform you of recent changes to the Ministry of Magic_ _’s education standards that will affect your future schooling. As of the seventh of August, 1995, Educational Decree Number Twenty-One is in effect, which reads, in part:_

_"All students from the ages of eleven to seventeen residing in the British Isles must be enrolled in a program of magical education within the British Isles that conforms to a Ministry-approved curriculum."_

_Your current enrolment at Beauxbatons Academy of Magic in France does not fulfil the Ministry_ _’s education requirement to be educated in Britain. Furthermore, its lack of fifth year qualifying examinations classifies Beauxbatons’s program as a substandard magical education under the new standards and would disqualify it from receiving an exemption. As such, you are required to enrol in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland, or a Ministry-approved tutoring program, before the first of September._

_Hoping you are well,_

_Elladora Dewey_

_Department of Magical Education_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remittere Somnia: Latin for “Be released, dreams.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling may not have a Nobel Prize for Literature, but she still owns Harry Potter.
> 
> I want to thank Brian1972 for useful conversations that helped me improve this chapter and all of fifth year. Yes, Hermione is going back to Hogwarts. I realise my reasoning isn’t completely airtight, but I tried to make it as solid as I could. I also made changes to my original plan for fifth year to make it diverge more from canon, and make it more plausible. Right now, this story going someplace even I never expected, but the pieces are coming together, and I think you’re going to like it.
> 
> And to those of you who think this will backfire on the Ministry spectacularly, well…it’s not going to be quite that simple. The Kafkaesque depths to which Dolores Umbridge will descend know no bounds.

“So can you explain this, Professor?” Dan Granger demanded of Minerva McGonagall.

After some confused back and forth of owls and Floo messages from the hopefully-innocuous location of the Leaky Cauldron, Remus had fetched McGonagall, and the two of them had escorted Hermione back home. McGonagall had an odd sense of _deja vu_ , sitting here with the Grangers, except that the last time she was in this position, they were in a hotel in Italy, and the Grangers were even more hostile to her than when she’d first revealed the existence of magic to them.

“I’m afraid I only have part of the story, Mr. Granger,” she said. “I was only informed of the new decree yesterday. However, I believe I can speculate. Has your daughter told you about the…er, political unrest going on in our world this summer?”

“If you mean about Voldemort being back and your government refusing to believe it, yes, unfortunately,” Emma said bitterly.

McGonagall flinched at Voldemort’s name, but she collected herself and answered, “Precisely, Mrs. Granger. The Minister’s campaign to unseat Headmaster Dumbledore from his position of influence in our society has hit a snag. That is, he cannot be removed from the school without cause. Likewise, Fudge’s effort to have Harry Potter expelled also failed. In short, he cannot suppress our message any further, so instead, he seeks to take control of the message by having all children in the country educated under Ministry standards. I do not believe he is singling out Hermione, if you were concerned about that.”

“Among other things,” Emma replied, “but if Headmaster Dumbledore is still in charge of the school, how does this help Fudge?”

“We don’t know yet,” Remus said.

McGonagall sighed: “I fear the Ministry will try to interfere at Hogwarts this year. It is the only explanation for such a decree. But beyond that, I cannot say anything.”

“So what are our options?” Dan asked. “No offence, but we still don’t want Hermione going back there if we can help it—not after her first three years. Could we send her to one of our schools for a year or two?”

“A muggle school?! Dad!” Hermione said, but her father cut her off.

“We want to know _all_ of our options, Hermione. If putting things off a couple years until you’re of age is what we need to do—”

“It won’t work,” Remus cut in.

“Excuse me?”

“Magical education is compulsory up to age seventeen,” McGonagall explained. “It’s enforced by the DMLE the same as your truant officers enforce muggle education. If you are still in the country, they _will_ come for you— _all_ of you.”

Hermione shivered at the implication. Were her parents subject to magical law? She’d have to look into the jurisdictional issues.

“Lovely,” Emma grumbled. “And we can’t move on this short of notice…Is there any chance we could get Hermione’s residence legally changed to France, Professor? She already goes to school there.”

“I…I don’t think so,” McGonagall said. It was an intriguing idea, but she couldn’t see it working.

“No, you couldn’t,” Remus said. “Not with her being underage, and you two still living in Britain. Maybe under muggle law, you could, but the Ministry doesn’t think very highly of muggle law.”

Hermione spoke up then: “What about the tutoring option?” she asked. “Even if it’s Ministry standards, at least I wouldn’t be stuck in the castle—no offence, ma’am.”

“In principle, yes, you could take private tutoring, Miss Granger,” McGonagall replied. “But in practice, it is very unlikely you would be able to do so.”

“Why not?”

“For two reasons. One is expense. No student is ever turned away from Hogwarts for lack of money, whereas private tutoring is very expensive. Most students who choose not to go to Hogwarts are homeschooled by their parents—an option the Ministry just closed. I can see you are well-off here, but the second reason is more important and follows from it: quite frankly, the only people who take private tutoring are rich purebloods. You can try and ask—one of the licensed tutors _might_ make an exception for a student as bright as you, but probably, they won’t accept a muggle-born.”

“That’s not fair!” Emma yelled. “Is that even legal?”

Remus raised his hands apologetically: “The magical world isn’t like the muggle world where you have laws against all kinds of discrimination. I wish it were. Things have actually got worse in the past couple years, especially for werewolves. I’m sorry, but there’s not really anything you can do.”

Dan and Emma both slumped back in their seats, looking defeated. “So we have no legal recourse, then?” Dan asked.

McGonagall shook her head sorry. “I’m very sorry,” she said. “Except in the unlikely event that you can find an approved tutoring program for her, you have no legal alternative to sending Hermione back to Hogwarts.”

Hermione could see the pain on her parents’ faces. She couldn’t rightly imagine how it felt—to be systematically blocked from every option to keep their child from harm. “Maybe it won’t be so bad,” she said, trying to comfort them somehow.

Her mum sighed and looked at her, tears welling in her eyes. “We really hoped we were done with that place, Hermione,” she murmured. “Harry was still nearly killed again last year, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, but…well, things have changed in the past year. _I_ _’ve_ changed, Mum. I know it’s not the answer you want, but I’m not helpless anymore. I can hold my own in a duel against Harry, and…well it was mostly luck that he survived against Voldemort, but…” She remembered her map. “ _And_ I have much better ways to spot suspicious characters than before. There are ways to detect invisibility and—”

“Hermione,” Emma cut her off, laying a hand on her shoulder. “We know how gifted you are with magic. We’ve seen—” She stopped when she saw McGonagall raise her eyebrow and Remus grin. “—your grades. And you told us…you told us all about how you helped Harry train, too. But you’re still our daughter, and we want to keep you safe.”

“I know, Mum.”

As his wife and daughter hugged, Dan gave McGonagall a stern look that rivalled her own and said, “Well, Professor McGonagall, if we have no legal recourse, we’ll send Hermione back to Hogwarts. But we’ll be looking into our options to move to France before Christmas Holidays. And we’ll be sending a complaint to the Ministry about this.”

“You can, but I doubt anything will happen,” Remus said. “If the person behind this is who I think is behind it, she won’t even _read_ a letter from a pair of muggles.”

“Great. Well, at least we know Madame Maxime likes us. She should take our side if anyone tries anything—especially after the Ministry called her school substandard.”

Hermione started laughing incongruously: “Oh, they’re really asking for it, aren’t they?”

Remus chuckled as well and said, “Well, then, since this is settled—as much as it can be, anyway—what are your plans, Hermione? You _do_ have that award ceremony next week. You can come back with us now or stay here a while longer. Dumbledore doesn’t want you coming and going too much, though.”

 _Yeah, because Dumbledore_ _’s so great at security,_ she thought. “I think…” she said. “I think I’ll stay here until after the awards ceremony and then go back to…to Headquarters. I really don’t get enough time to spend with my parents, and I want to go to Diagon Alley this week, too.”

“You should have an escort for that,” Remus said at once. “I can take you on Monday, if you like.”

“Monday’s fine. Thank you, Remus.”

* * *

“So I probably should have asked at the beginning, where did you actually want to go?” Remus asked when they reached Diagon Alley on Monday.

“Well, I need new Hogwarts robes…and then I want to stop by Ollivander’s,” she said innocently, although Remus raised his eyebrows.

Since it was school shopping season, old Mr. Ollivander was manning the counter, and he certainly looked pleased to see Hermione. “Ah, Miss Hermione Granger,” he said with a smile. “A pleasure to see you again. Ten and three-quarter inches, vine wood, and dragon heartstring. Yes, excellent wand, that.”

“It’s good to see you, too, Mr. Ollivander,” Hermione said.

“I saw your work on Gamp’s Law, Miss Granger, along with Miss Gamp and Professor Vector,” he said. “Extraordinary work. I knew you had potential, but this is beyond even my expectations. It takes a rare talent to do that. And how have your experiments in wandcraft gone this summer, may I ask?”

Hermione was blushing at Ollivander’s praise by now. “Er, the one I was working on burned out when I tried to hold a Patronus Charm on it too long. I’m guessing that was due to the emotional power of the charm.”

“Oh, most definitely. The Patronus Charm is in a different league entirely from most spells. A pity. I would have liked to see your work…” Ollivander seemed to notice Remus for the first time. “And Remus Lupin. Ten and a quarter inches, cypress, and unicorn hair. A very fine wand, if I do say so myself. It’s still serving you well, I hope?”

“Very well, Mr. Ollivander,” Remus said.

“Excellent. Well, then, how can I help you today, Miss Granger?”

“Well, sir, I’d like to buy a second real wand,” she said. “One to wield with my left hand alongside my old one, or in case something happens to it.”

Mr. Ollivander’s eyes widened, and he seemed to draw back a little.

“Er, if that’s allowed, Mr. Ollivander,” Hermione added apologetically.

“Well…well, well, well…” he said. “It _is_ allowed, Miss Granger, but I should warn you about the nature of second wands. It’s not as simple as just carrying two wands on you—certainly not just duplicating your old wand. Your wand is a reflection of you. The one you bought four years ago has grown with you, changed in subtle ways, so that it still works as well for you as the day you bought it, even though you yourself have changed. A new wand will be a reflection of who you are _now_ , and it is usually a good deal more difficult to fit a second wand than your first.”

“Okay—” she started.

“There is more, Miss Granger,” Ollivander interrupted. “There are reasons why most wizards only carry one wand. First, a second wand is more expensive than your first,” he explained. “There is a tax on extra wands. Also, many people, if they know you are carrying more than one wand, will regard it as suspicious—will think you are up to something. And most importantly, there is a small, but significant chance that your old wand will resent you choosing a new one, and it will no longer work as well for you in the future.”

“Oh…” Hermione said, thinking over his words. But she _needed_ a backup wand, she reasoned. She had a bad feeling her life would give her ample opportunities to use both of her wands, so she couldn’t see her old wand getting…jealous. And it was a reflection of herself, and she wasn’t a very jealous person…she thought. “Just the same, Mr. Ollivander,” she decided, “I’d still like to get a second wand.”

“Are you sure, Hermione?” her mum whispered.

“Definitely. The benefits definitely outweigh the risk on this.”

“Very well,” Ollivander said, and he paused to think for a moment. “Hmm, I think this would be a good teaching exercise, if you don’t mind. Garrett, come out here,” he called.

A moment later, a young man came out from the workroom, old Ollivander’s grandson, whom she had met last Christmas Holiday. “What is it, Grandpa?” he asked.

“Garrett, Miss Granger, here, would like to buy a second wand—a left-handed wand.” Old Ollivander nodded significantly to indicate she was sure about it. “Perhaps you could help fit her.”

“Alright, then. Could I see your current wand, Miss Granger?” She handed it over, and he examined it. “Hmm…vine wood, ten and three-quarter inches…dragon heartstring core. Very good. And you want one for your left hand?”

“Yes.” She held out her left arm.

Garrett snapped his fingers, and the tape measure on the counter started measuring. “Interesting,” he said. “Not many witches or wizards ever try left-handed casting. You _can_ cast left-handed, Miss Granger?”

“I’ve been practising for over a year.”

“I see. Well, this won’t be easy to fit…”

“Just reason it out, Garrett,” his grandfather encouraged.

“Well…the wand core is attuned to your magical talents, and those rarely change, so you’ll want another dragon heartstring wand. Probably a little longer than your old one to symbolise your personal growth since you bought it. But the wood and flexibility are tricky—very tricky…Let’s try beechwood first, since you’ve worked with that before in your own studies.”

He disappeared into the stacks of wands and returned with one that looked superficially similar to the blood-bound wand she had made for herself at the beginning of summer. Unlike when she bought her first wand, she knew some magic now and could easily cast spells with it, but she could also feel at once that it was not as responsive as her vine wood wand. Old Mr. Ollivander could tell from the moment it touched her fingers and almost moved to take it from her, but he restrained himself. Garrett picked up on it pretty quickly, too.

On her first visit, Hermione was fitted with her wand on the third try, almost immediately after she started asking questions about how they worked. Mr. Ollivander had laughed when he worked it out, as if her inquisitive personality had made it obvious. This time, however, she had no such luck. She was shown wands of dogwood, walnut, pine, hornbeam (Old Mr. Ollivander seemed disappointed about that one), ebony, acacia, ash, multiple beech wands, and larch. After half a dozen tries, Old Mr. Ollivander jumped in and showed her some himself. After more than a dozen tries, he and his grandson started arguing about what to try next.

“Maybe another vine wand _would_ be best,” the old man said after a few suggestions.

“You’re the one who told me replacement wands are almost always a different wood, Grandpa,” Garrett responded. “What about red oak?”

“For her non-dominant hand? Don’t be ridiculous.”

“But she’s a spellcrafter.”

“You can’t wield red oak with a non-dominant hand, Garrett. Now, maybe yew?” The old man shivered.

“Yew? No, completely not the type.”

“It could happen. Yew isn’t all about the Dark Arts. She’s shown herself as a protector of her friends.”

“I’m sorry, Grandpa. I’m just not seeing it.”

“You still have much to learn, then.” Old Ollivander disappeared into the stacks and returned with a wand of yew. Hermione tried it, but it was still no more responsive than the others.

“I still think we should give red oak a shot,” Garrett said.

“Then go find one and try it, Garrett,” his grandfather snapped.

Garrett did just that. He took his time looking through the stacks and came back with an excited look on his face. “I have a good feeling about this one, Miss Granger,” he said. “Red oak and dragon heartstring, eleven and three-quarter inches, nice and springy.”

Hermione had a premonition as well as she eyed the reddish-brown wood, and from the instant it touched her skin, she knew it was the right one. Here was a reflection of her first wand, changed through her four years’ experience as a witch. Her first wand was light and carved with a vine pattern. This wand was a handsome medium tone and carved, improbably, with a double helix design. Her first wand felt warm and inviting in her hand. This one felt cool, but a pleasant cool—less raw power and more precise and calculating. She could still feel its power, though. In her first wand, it was like a beam of sunlight and had produced pure white sparks. This one, however, felt like a taut bowstring, ready to be released at a moment’s notice with perfect accuracy. When she waved it, it lit up the shop in a subtle continuum of blues and silvers.

Old Mr. Ollivander’s jaw dropped. “I stand corrected,” he said.

“I told you, Grandpa.”

Hermione passed the wand to her right hand, where she could feel less power and potential, but its devastating precision leaped in her fingers, like a perfectly balanced sword (not that she’d ever _used_ a sword before). Then, she passed it back to her left and drew her first wand with her right. The hot and cold side by side seemed to make the perfect combination. “It’s wonderful,” she said, “just what I needed.”

“Well, it seems that the instincts of the young can sometimes surpass the experience of the old,” the elder Ollivander said. “Very good work, Garrett. Curious…a very curious match, Miss Granger. I haven’t been this intrigued since I fitted your friend, Mr. Potter.”

Hermione flinched: “This wand isn’t a brother to some dark lady’s I don’t know about, is it?”

“No. I meant the choice of wood. Red oak has a dual nature, you see. It makes a spellcrafter’s wand—probably the best wood of all for spellcrafting—but it is also a duellist’s wand. It will accept only a hand with fast reactions and a light touch. You must have put in an extraordinary effort for it to submit to your non-dominant hand.”

“Daily practice for over a year, sir,” she explained. “Most wizards don’t ever practice anything they don’t use regularly for more than a few weeks.”

“You see, Grandpa?” Garrett said. “Perfectly logical.”

“Very well, then. That will be ten galleons, nine sickles, Miss Granger.”

Hermione thought that markup sounded like less of a tax and more like highway robbery, but she paid it, and when she did, she felt more protected than she had in a long time. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

* * *

Professor McGonagall was back on Saturday to escort the Grangers to Hogsmeade. Muggles rarely entered the all-magical village, even if they had family there, so in these troubled times, it was not a good idea to go there alone. Plus, McGonagall wouldn’t miss this for the world.

“I can’t tell you how proud I am of both of you,” she told Hermione and Rebecca when they met the older girl at the offices of _Transfiguration Today._ “I’ve had many students win this award, but never such a talented pair as you two. And since it’ll be made public soon, I’ll tell you, I’ve nominated the two of you and Professor Vector for the Gamp Prize this December.”

Rebecca looked extremely excited by that, and Hermione wasn’t surprised. The Gamp Prize wasn’t a scholarly journal award, which wasn’t hard to win in the tiny magical world, but a _global_ prize, like the Nobel, for the greatest advance in Transfiguration in a given year. (Though unlike the Nobel, it was still awarded for work actually published during that calendar year.) Rebecca gasped, squeaked out, “Thank you so much, Professor!” and actually _hugged_ McGonagall before she came to her senses.

“Um…you’re quite welcome, Miss Gamp,” she said before taking her seat.

“Wow,” Hermione whispered, trying not to giggle too much. “You just hugged Professor McGonagall and lived.”

Rebecca blushed, but she stayed courteous. “Well…it’s just that no one in my family’s won a Gamp since Great-Grand-Aunt Hesper in 1919.”

“Really? No one?”

“Hey, it’s a global prize. It’s not easy. And most of my family’s well-known work was centuries ago. It would be a great honour for another Gamp to win it.”

“Then I hope I don’t sound too self-serving when I say I hope we do. I’m mostly hoping for the Wenlock Prize, myself.”

“Well, you would,” Rebecca said with a smirk. The Wenlock Prize was another global prize, this one for arithmancy. The girls expected to see nominations for that soon as well.

The award ceremony was conducted with little pomp, by muggle standards. Even though _Transfiguration Today_ was subscribed in America, Australia, and even parts of continental Europe and India, it was a small community and a small audience. Hermione and Rebecca were handed certificates, posed for photographs for the _Daily Prophet,_ and were asked to speak about their research for a couple minutes, and that was about it.

“Well, it was good to see you again, Rebecca,” Hermione said when it was over. “I’ll see you at Hogwarts.”

“What?” she sputtered. “I thought you were going back to Beauxbatons.”

“Unfortunately not. The Ministry passed some educational decree that I have to go to school in Britain. Believe me, I’m not any happier about it than you are.”

“I’m not unhappy about it.”

“Oh.” Hermione and Rebecca hadn’t got on very well before, but apparently, collaborating on this project had genuinely brought them together. “Well…er…thanks, Rebecca.”

After dropping her parents off at home and saying goodbye, Professor McGonagall took Hermione back to Grimmauld Place, where she faced the mostly-pleasant task of meeting up with her friends with whom she would once again be going to Hogwarts. The unpleasant part was the bit where she left for over a week without telling them. They weren’t happy, but they understood. It was hard having muggle parents in a magical world that seemed to be out to get you.

Actually, there was one other unpleasant part to it.

After dinner, George pulled her aside—she noted at once that Fred wasn’t with him—and said, “Hermione, could I talk to you for a bit?”

“Sure, George,” she said, already having some idea of what this was about.

He led her to the currently unoccupied drawing room and leaned against the back of a sofa.

“So, Hermione,” he said, “you’re going back to Hogwarts with us?”

“Yes, I am. For now, at least. I’m guessing this is about what we discussed on the train ride last spring?”

George flashed his boyish grin: “You see, that’s what I like about you Hermione. You’re always on top of things.”

But she sighed in return: “George, please don’t make this any harder.”

He frowned. “You _did_ say something about things changing if we could go to the same school. I would never push you to go against your parents and leave Beauxbatons, but now that you have to go back to Hogwarts anyway—”

“George, please stop,” she held up her hand. “Look, we both still like each other, okay? I’m mature enough to admit it. And we’re both people for whom maybe that’s not the easiest thing. Not many girls can see the brilliance behind the class clown, and surprisingly few boys are interested in a witch who can best them at blowing things up.”

“Well, I wouldn’t go _that_ far…”

“Do you remember what I taught Harry to do to that dragon last year?” Hermione said sweetly.

“Fair enough,” he admitted.

“The point is, there aren’t many. I know; I’ve looked. And if I knew I was coming back to Hogwarts for good, I don’t think I’d have any reservations, but this is probably only going to be for the autumn term. Come January, I’ll probably be back at Beauxbatons, and I’ll have two more years there. And you—you’ll be working on your shop, and you don’t know how that’s going to go. I don’t want to take that away from you…”

“So you’re saying you don’t want to take the leap because you don’t know what the future holds?”

“Yes—NO!” she said as she saw his trap. “Argh—George! I’m not like you, okay? I can take risks, sure, but I can’t risk everything on one Quidditch bet!”

But George started chuckling. “Okay, okay, that was too far,” he admitted. “Just…please sit down. Let me take a minute and tell you what I’m seeing from my perspective.”

Hermione stood stiffly, but she nodded and took a chair. George swung his legs over the arm of the sofa and sat across from her.

“I don’t want to pressure you unfairly,” he started off. “Ron probably would just because he’s clueless. Fred might…Heck even Ginny might if you were a boy. But you’ve shown me I don’t have to be Fred’s doppelgänger. I want to be better than that.”

“Thank you for that,” she said softly.

“The point is,” he went on, “we both like each other, but here we are, stuck twelve hundred miles apart all year. And every time we’re apart I think, “Maybe it’ll go away,” and then, every time I see you, you do something that brings it all back. Like that bit with the Daydream Charms. That was just so…Hermione. It was so effortlessly brilliant you acted like it was obvious. I never get tired of it. I don’t know if you feel the same way, but…”

Hermione blushed as she remembered the ginger pirate from that Daydream Charm. “Er…maybe,” she admitted softly. “Maybe more than I’d care to admit.” George didn’t say anything to that, so she just stumbled on: “So you’re saying, maybe it’s time we stopped lying to ourselves and admitted these feelings _aren_ _’t_ going away?”

“I think that’s what _you_ _’re_ saying, now,” he quipped.

“George!”

“Sorry—just kidding. But basically, yes. I mean, if you really feel the same way I do, then this has been going on for eight months with us being apart and trying to avoid the subject. Now, we know we’re gonna be around each other every day till Christmas. Can you honestly say you don’t want to look into it further?”

Hermione just stared at the older boy. Even after all this time, he could still surprise her. “When did you get so mature?” she managed.

“Oi! I resent that!” George said, but he was still smiling. “And you didn’t answer the question.”

“I…I don’t know…” Hermione said. She bit her lip nervously. “This would be so much easier if we were just a normal couple—No, not ‘normal’; I mean…Well, it doesn’t matter because I still probably won’t be here come January.”

“Hermione, at the rate things are going, I don’t know if we can even predict that far,” George said seriously. “And if you do go away after Christmas, well, we can still work it out like we’ve been doing already. I know you’re not as…you know, carefree as I am, but what’s life without a little risk?”

Hermione continued biting her lip as she considered his words. Was she being too afraid of the unknown? She thought back to some of the private conversations she’d had with her mum this past summer. Mum had seemed to be pushing her to live a little: _“Hermione, you can’t go through life without getting your heart broken once in a while.”_ Her therapist (the one she seemed to visit a couple times each July with increasingly contrived non-magical stories to help her deal with whatever horrible thing had happened that June) had said much the same thing in more clinical terms. And then there was George flashing his winning smile…

“Oh, who am I kidding? Yes, already!”

“Yes? Yes what?” George said impishly.

“Yes—yes, just kiss me, will you?” she snapped, unable to articulate her feelings any further.

George didn’t need to be told twice. Their kiss was a good deal longer than their previous ones, and it started Hermione’s heart racing, and a part of her was glad when they broke apart because she needed to calm down after all that.

Then George said, “You’re still gonna pay for that ‘mature’ comment, though.”

* * *

Hermione Granger sat bolt upright in bed. “Of course! It’s so simple!” she said.

In a crowded house like Number Twelve Grimmauld Place, few things could stay secret for long, so Hermione and George had decided not to try to hide their relationship. The day after that awkward conversation, they had started holding hands as if it were perfectly normal. It took seven minutes before anyone noticed.

The fact that they were now dating was met with squeals of glee from Ginny, incredulous sputtering from Ron and, oddly, Mrs. Weasley, a knowing smile from Mr. Weasley, and threats (mostly from Hermione) to Fred to lay off the wisecracks _or else_. But after the initial shock had worn off, it had been a pleasant week. In practice, not much had changed except for the hand-holding and the occasional kiss, but Hermione knew she had a new kind of emotional support in George that she hadn’t had before, and she thought she appreciated that most of all.

But this had nothing to do with any of that.

Hermione woke early and raced downstairs to catch Mrs. Weasley making breakfast because she was pretty sure she had just had the most brilliant idea she’d had all month. And as she was going back to Hogwarts tomorrow, she wanted to investigate it as quickly as possible. And Mrs. Weasley was just the person to ask.

“Good morning, Mrs. Weasley,” she said as she entered the kitchen.

“Why, good morning, Hermione, dear,” Mrs. Weasley said brightly as she fried up some bacon. “You’re up early this morning.”

“Yes, ma’am. I had an idea, and I was wondering if I could talk to you.”

Mrs. Weasley stopped and looked at her. “To me?” she said in surprise.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright, then. Actually, I’ve been wanting to talk to you, too.”

“You have?”

“Yes. I just wanted to apologise if I made you and George feel uncomfortable about your relationship.”

 _Um_ _…what?_ “You haven’t been making me feel uncomfortable, Mrs. Weasley.”

“I’m glad to hear that, dear. I was just concerned that I wasn’t being fair to you. I _did_ ask you multiple times if you were playing a prank, after all.”

“Oh, that,” Hermione chuckled. “I’ve really just come to expect that around George and Fred.”

Mrs. Weasley smiled sadly: “It still sounds so strange to hear someone say that—‘George and Fred.’ You don’t notice that you’ve been saying it one way for seventeen years until someone points it out to you. I _do_ think you’re good for George. I hope Fred can find someone who can handle him just as well. I was just surprised. I was surprised you went to that Yule Ball together last year, and I’m still a little surprised. You’re just so different.”

“I know,” Hermione said with a smile. “It took me by surprise, too. But I think we have quite a bit in common where it counts.”

“Well, I’m sure your own mother is doing a very good job, but if you ever want to talk, you’re welcome to come to me.”

“Um, thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” she said. “But I had something different I wanted to talk about.”

“Oh? What was that?”

“Could you teach me how to cast the Imperturbable Charm?”

 _Um_ _…what?_ Mrs. Weasley thought. “You…want to learn how to _cast_ the Imperturbable Charm?” she said, certain she’d misheard.

“Yes, ma’am.” In retrospect, Hermione should have thought of it weeks ago, when she first saw it cast on the kitchen door. It only came to her now because Mrs. Weasley had used it again for a meeting last night.

“And may I ask why?” Mrs. Weasley said suspiciously, which Hermione had more or less expected. After all, if she could cast it, she might be able to reverse it. Actually, Hermione could probably reverse engineer it on her own with the spell-manipulation techniques she’d learnt last year, but it would be more reliable to learn it properly.

“The Imperturbable Charm stops anything from touching the door; everything just bounces off. I thought if I cast the Imperturbable Charm on a crucible, it could withstand the heat of really hot molten metals. I was experimenting last year with forging metals in small amounts, but some of them melt at temperatures so high that a normal crucible can’t hold them.”

Mrs. Weasley blinked in confusion at Hermione’s non-linear explanation. That happened to her sometimes, when her mind got ahead of her words, and she couldn’t get everything out in order. “You…want…to cast the Imperturbably Charm on a crucible?” she said. “Like a potions crucible.”

“So it can hold molten metal, yes.”

“Do you think that will work?” She had clearly never thought of such a use for that charm.

“I think it will, unless it can’t stand up to very high heat. Do you know any reason it wouldn’t?”

“Well…no, I suppose not. It’s just very strange way to use that spell—And dare I ask why you’re working with molten metal?” she demanded, getting to the more pressing issue.

“Just an arithmantic curiosity for now. Mostly, I’m trying to figure out how to work with tungsten because essentially no non-magical methods will work on it. I might find a better use for it later.”

Mrs. Weasley stared at her for a minute, trying to process all this. “Hermione,” she said at last, “I wish I could understand a fraction of this arithmancy stuff the way you do. I never would’ve thought to do that in a hundred years. I suppose you can’t use it against us at this point, so I’ll show you…”

She walked Hermione through the wand motion and incantation, which Hermione picked up quickly, and even let her try it a few times. “Just don’t tell Ron and Ginny,” she whispered with a grin. “You know, I would’ve let Ginny try a few household charms if she asked, but she never seemed interested.” Hermione wasn’t surprised by that. If Ginny Weasley ever became a housewitch, she’d check her for Polyjuice Potion.

Around mid-morning, the Hogwarts letters finally arrived, and not a minute too soon. Professor McGonagall had explained that they were having a hard time finding a Defence Professor, hence the delay. The new first-years had still been sent their letters in July, since they would need their full supply list, and they were told that the missing book would be provided when they reached school, but the Board didn’t want to spare the expense to supply the rest of the school with an as-yet-unknown Defence text.

Hermione opened her letter and saw that there were only two new course books set this year: _The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 5_ by Miranda Goshawk and _defensive Magical Theory_ by Wilbert Slinkhard. Everything seemed in order, until everyone converged on Harry’s and Ron’s room, and things took a turn for the surreal.

“Get Ron red and gold pyjamas to match his badge,” George told his mother, smirking. He winked at Hermione when she walked in the room.

“His what?” Mrs. Weasley said idly.

“His _badge_ ,” Fred repeated. “His lovely, shiny, new _prefect_ _’s badge_.”

“Wait, _Ron?_ A _prefect_?” Hermione stammered. That was impossible. Obviously, the best choice was Harry. Ron could probably manage it, but, well, he was Ron.

But Mrs. Weasley screamed when she saw Ron was holding a prefect’s badge. “I don’t believe it!” she cried. “Oh, Ron, that’s wonderful! That’s everyone in the family!”

“Excuse me?” Hermione defended her boyfriend—wow, that still sounded weird to think.

George wasn’t any happier. “What are Fred and I? Next-door neighbours?” he said.

“I think she means everyone in the family who had a chance at it,” Fred said more quietly as their mother continued to gush over Ron.

George smiled at that: “Everyone who actually cared.”

“Everyone who actually wanted to be a perfect little teacher’s pet.”

“No offence, Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s alright, George,” she said, loud enough to be heard over Mrs. Weasley. “I didn’t make prefect either.”

Everything stopped. All eyes turned to her.

“Hermione?” Harry said in shock. “You aren’t a prefect either?”

“No,” she shrugged and held her envelope upside-down. “At least, I didn’t get a badge. I assume Parvati got it.”

“You’re not having us on?” George said cautiously. He’d come to recognise her sometimes-deadpan sense of humour.

“No, I really didn’t.”

“Has Dumbledore gone mad?” Ginny broke the silence next. “Harry not being a prefect is one thing, but you? You’re the best by a mile!”

Hermione shook her head calmly: “I don’t know about Harry, but for me, I’m sure it’s because I won’t be there in the spring. I wasn’t expecting to get it in the first place.”

Everyone stared at her, as if they were worried she’d explode at any moment.

“What?”

“We thought you’d flip, not being one,” said Fred. “You’re…you.”

“Well, it’s aggravating that I won’t get the chance because of this stupid Ministry decree, but it’s not like I need it for my resume, like Per—like _some_ people I won’t name. In my field, it’s your scholarly papers that are important, and I’ve got that covered pretty well already.”

“Huh. Well, _this_ is a day I never thought I’d see,” George said.

Mrs. Weasley wanted to reward Ron, as she had her older sons when they because prefects, and after some discussion, Ron decided he’d prefer a new broom. “I think we can manage that,” she said once they’d settled on that. “I’ll get all of your books for you while I’m out, if you like. It’ll save a trip.”

“Er, thanks, Mrs. Weasley,” Harry muttered. He fished in his pockets for some money to pay me.

“Right- and left-handed editions for me, please,” Hermione said, and she handed her four galleons that she thought would cover the cost plus some cushion.

Mrs. Weasley gave her a queer look, but she said, “Of course, Hermione,” and went on her way.

Hermione wasn’t sure what to do about Harry. He looked really let down by being passed over, especially as Dumbledore seemed to be all but ignoring him lately. Unfortunately, she couldn’t do much about it because Ron was hanging around all day, and that would be an awkward conversation to have in his presence. Not that her redheaded friend wasn’t sympathetic. He seemed as baffled as everyone else as to why he’d been made a prefect, and he seemed genuinely concerned with Harry’s plight. But it still didn’t help matters that Mrs. Weasley decided to throw a party for him. After a long day, Hermione decided she’d have to leave it for the train ride tomorrow.


	8. Fifth Year, Autumn Term

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Force is strong with JK Rowling.
> 
> Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

They made their way to King’s Cross the next morning on foot with a guard of Order members—that bit was just for Harry, which he took about as well as most of them expected. They were running late because Sturgis Podmore had failed to show up, and once they got on board, Ron had to go to the prefect’s meeting at once. Hermione, Harry, and Ginny soon found themselves a compartment with Neville and Luna. Hermione had to explain why she was back at Hogwarts, but they were both pleased to see her. She made a note to talk to Luna about potential magical weapons in private later. At least that bit of work would be streamlined.

“I’m surprised you two aren’t the prefects,” Neville told Harry and Hermione. “Ron and Parvati are alright, but they don’t really seem like…”

“I know,” Hermione said, “I probably won’t be here for spring term, though, and Harry…we’re not really sure what happened with Harry.”

“Dumbledore doesn’t like me this year,” he muttered.

“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Ginny assured him, patting his arm. “You’re one of the few people who’s still on his side. I still think the stress is getting to him.”

Harry gave a disagreeable sort of grunt, but said nothing.

“It _is_ odd,” Hermione agreed. “I know you’d be a controversial choice, what with what the _Prophet_ _’s_ been writing all summer, but Professor Dumbledore certainly hasn’t been shy about inviting controversy.”

“The _Daily Prophet_ has clearly been infested with wrackspurts,” Luna said over her upside-down copy of _The Quibbler_.

“Um…sure. And Dumbledore can’t possibly think you’re not prefect material after all you’ve done, Harry. I mean, just look at last night.”

“What happened last night?” asked Neville.

Hermione glanced at Ginny and let her tell it:

 

 _It had happened just as everyone was going to bed. Hermione was changing into her pyjamas when she heard a faint sobbing sound, which concerned her some, but it wasn_ _’t until she heard Harry shout_ “Expecto Patronum!” _that she became alarmed. Fearing the worst, Hermione moved faster than Ginny had ever seen her move, threw on a bathrobe over her underwear as she banged through the door, flew down the stairs and charged into the drawing room with her own shout of_ “Expecto Patronum!”

_Her otter Patronus appeared at once, where it immediately joined Harry_ _’s stag in…trampling a dementor into submission?_

_“Back up, I’ve got it!” Remus yelled as he rushed into the room. He jumped in front of Harry, and the “dementor” turned into a silvery orb._ “Riddikulus!” _he bellowed, and the orb turned into a balloon and flew out the window._

_Hermione turned pink as she realised the threat was actually the boggart from the writing desk, not a real dementor. She turned around and saw a tear-stricken Mrs. Weasley staring up at her and Harry in awe. Without even consciously commanding it, her Patronus swam over to her and nuzzled her cheek, and the older witch started to calm down. It wasn_ _’t hard to guess what a mother of seven who had already lost family to war would see in a boggart._

Hermione hadn’t heard all the details, but she knew that Harry had found Mrs. Weasley and jumped between her and the boggart when her own _Riddikulus_ failed. Mrs. Weasley had thanked both Harry and Hermione when she came to her senses, and everyone was impressed with their Patronuses. Mad-Eye Moody even complimented them for their quick thinking.

Courage, chivalry, quickness to action, and magical talent—all great traits for prefects and Gryffindor ones in particular. And that certainly wasn’t the first or most significant time Harry had shown those traits.

“I don’t know why Professor Dumbledore didn’t pick you, but it certainly wasn’t because you’re not good enough, Harry,” Hermione concluded.

“And I agree,” Ginny said.

“Thanks, girls,” Harry said, but he still looked unhappy. Hermione didn’t blame him. Dumbledore was being more mysterious than usual this summer. She was pretty sure he was hiding something—the same way he didn’t want Harry informed of what was going on at Headquarters, but it didn’t look like he was any more likely to tell her his reasoning than Harry. And it was doubly mysterious because the Heads of House were supposed to have some input into the selection, and Professor McGonagall seemed even less likely to pass Harry over.

Ron came back about an hour into the trip and reported that he’d traded with Padma so that she and Parvati could patrol the train together. The other new Ravenclaw prefect was Anthony Goldstein. It was Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott for Hufflepuff and, unfortunately, Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson for Slytherin. That was definitely Snape’s influence, Hermione thought. Theo Nott and Daphne Greengrass would definitely have been better choices. But Cedric was head boy, and Rebecca was head girl, so that was good. Malfoy showed up to annoy them at one point, but he didn’t cause too much trouble.

Once they got to Hogwarts, they got a new surprise: Hagrid wasn’t there. A witch with a prominent chin and a severe haircut was escorting the first-years to the castle. Parvati informed Hermione that she was Professor Grubbly-Plank, who had substituted for Hagrid briefly last year. No one knew where Hagrid was, but they didn’t have time to ask around. They climbed aboard the thestral-drawn carriages and rolled up to the castle.

The Great Hall was already filling up when they arrived. Hermione’s eyes immediately sought out Septima, who was sitting at the end of the High Table, as usual. She waved back when Hermione waved at her, but she looked less happy than she had last year.

“It’s that Umbridge woman!” Harry hissed.

“Who?” Hermione looked around.

Harry pointed at a short, squat witch sitting beside Professor Dumbledore. She had a toad-like face and wore a hideous pink cardigan with a matching pink Alice band in her curly, mousy hair.

“She was at my hearing; she works for Fudge!”

“She works for Fudge? Why would she be—oh, dear.”

“What?” Harry said.

Hermione scanned the High Table and counted the familiar faces. Fourteen. Plus McGonagall, Filch, and that Grubbly-Plank woman made seventeen, and the only remaining post left unaccounted for was the Defence Against the Dark Arts post. “No, surely not.”

“What is it?” Ginny asked.

Hermione leaned close and dropped her voice to a whisper: “Professor McGonagall said she was worried the Ministry would interfere at Hogwarts this year. I think _they_ chose the Defence Professor.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. “Can they do that?” she asked.

“Legally, I don’t know, but I think they did. Did any of you read any of the new Defence textbook yet?”

“Did _anyone_ besides you, Hermione?” George asked.

She ignored that. “It’s horrid. It’s all about avoiding a fight and how you should use only defensive spells instead of fighting back. The third-years probably know more practical defence than what’s in that book.”

“But why would they send such a bad teacher?” asked Fred.

“I don’t know—”

Their conversation was interrupted as Professor McGonagall led the first-years into the Great Hall. It was another big class, born in the first years after Voldemort’s previous defeat. There were also several older students at the back of the line. Those must be the students who were forced out of homeschooling to attend Hogwarts, Hermione thought. None of them looked all that happy to be there.

The Sorting Hat’s song was different this year. It was twice as long as the ones Hermione had heard before, and instead of extolling the virtues of the four houses, it told the history of their split early in Hogwarts’s history. Hermione’s frown deepened as she heard the tale. She knew that Slytherin had left early in the school’s history because of the dispute over his pureblood prejudices, but what she hadn’t heard was that never in the ensuing thousand years had the four houses been united. According to the Hat, something always came between them—probably still the pureblood prejudices most of the time.

Some of the Hat’s closing words truly chilled her: _“Though condemned I am to split you, still I worry that it’s wrong. Though I must fulfil my duty and quarter every year, still I wonder whether Sorting may not bring the end I fear.”_ Were the divisions at Hogwarts so deep that the whole school could collapse under their weight? Was the Sorting a mistake from the start? What did this portend for the war? She had no idea, but the Hat had a thousand years of experience, and its advice wasn’t to be taken lightly. Many of her fellow students looked worried, too.

“The Hat gives warnings to the school when it detects periods of great danger,” said Nearly-Headless Nick, the Gryffindor ghost. “It must think something very serious is happening.”

That much she was sure of, but the rest—well, Hermione would just have to wait and see. Professor McGonagall called the roll, and the first-years were sorted, from Euan Abercrombie to Rose Zeller. But when they were done, McGonagall didn’t take the Hat away, as she usually did, and there were still half a dozen students standing in the middle of the Hall.

“Congratulations to all of the first years,” Professor McGonagall said. “However, we are not quite done. Due to new educational regulations from the Ministry this year—” She shot an annoyed look at the newcomer at the High Table. “—we have six transfer students from home-school and tutoring programs and one from Beauxbatons. I invite these students to also step forward when I call your names.”

Hermione was still trying to figure out whether someone had miscounted when McGonagall called the fourth name: “Granger, Hermione.”

There were surprised whispers throughout the Hall, and Hermione stood up: “Excuse me, Professor?”

“Miss Granger, please come forward.”

“But Professor McGonagall, I’ve already been Sorted. I’m a Gryffindor.”

“Yes, you were Sorted four years ago, but technically, your Gryffindor affiliation was cancelled when you transfered to Beauxbatons. Since you have re-enrolled here, you need to be re-Sorted…It is an eventuality that has not happened in my lifetime, but the rules require it.”

“Oh…Okay, Professor.” Hermione suddenly felt very self-conscious as she walked to the stool like a little firstie. What if she was Sorted into a different House? _Could_ she be Sorted into a different House? She’d already bought her Gryffindor robes, not to mention all the other problems with that. She sat on the stool and placed the Hat on her head. It must have been magically enlarged at some point because it still covered her eyes. “Um, hello, Mr. Hat,” she whispered.

“Hello again, Miss Granger,” the Hat’s voice whispered in her ear. “It’s not often I get to talk to a student more than once. You’ve certainly grown since I last spoke with you.”

“It’s…good to talk with you again, too, I suppose,” she said. Even after four years, it didn’t feel any less strange to be having a conversation with an article of clothing. “I really wasn’t expecting this.”

“Ah, but it’s my pleasure. I haven’t done a re-Sorting in a hundred years. It’s always interesting to see what’s changed.”

“Aren’t you going to just send me back to Gryffindor, though?” _Please say yes. Please say yes._

“I don’t have to send you there, Miss Granger. And I almost never have this much material to work with.”

“What do you mean?” she said nervously.

“I’ve often thought we Sort too soon here at Hogwarts. Dumbledore’s expressed the same sentiment a few times. People change even by their second year, let alone their seventh. And _you,_ by virtue of age and experience, have the qualities of all four houses in greater quantity than many of the first years have any of them.”

Hermione goggled at that. She couldn’t imagine herself being one of those (presumably) rare people who were balanced amongst all the Houses. “But I _must_ have a dominant aspect to my personality,” she argued.

The Sorting Hat actually started to laugh. She could imagine her friends seeing its tip quivering and wondering what it was talking about. Everyone must be wondering what was taking so long. They’d already gone longer than her first Sorting. “My dear,” it said, “the dominant aspect of your personality is and always has been Ravenclaw, but that’s not the only reason I Sort children where I do. It’s not all about being around people who are like you. It’s about putting you in the place that will suit you best, and hopefully where you can do the most good for the school. Do you remember why I Sorted you into Gryffindor before, Miss Granger?”

“You said Ravenclaw wasn’t what I needed,” she recalled. “You said I had…well, it must have been some kind of Gryffindor-ness that needed to be cultivated.”

“Precisely. You would have been a brilliant Ravenclaw, but if I had sent you there, you would have always been a shy, rule-abiding number-phile with few close friends, living a fairly uninteresting life. You _might_ have still found the sixth exception to Gamp’s Law, but you never would have started smelting metal, making magical maps, or casting left-handed. In fact, I doubt whether you would have even been adventurous enough to befriend the house elves. But instead, I sent you to Gryffindor, and it’s done you a world of good. Gryffindor has taught you to loosen up and think outside the box, and as a result, it’s enriched your life beyond what you could have imagined four years ago.”

“And nearly got me killed four times, but fair enough,” Hermione quipped. “So what’s the problem?”

“Simply that you’ve already learnt the lesson that you needed to learn from Gryffindor. You have daring, nerve, and chivalry that would have made old Godric proud. You have friendships there that won’t be broken if you change houses. You have the faculties to be great no matter where you go. You don’t need Gryffindor now any more than you need Ravenclaw.”

“Well, I have to go _somewhere,_ Mr. Hat.”

“So cheeky, Miss Granger. Yes, you have to go _somewhere_ , but the _where_ is not so clear. This is a very rare privilege for you, and it shouldn’t be wasted.”

“So what are you thinking? Aren’t you supposed to be Sorting me, after all?”

The Hat laughed again: “What do you think I’ve _been_ doing while we were talking all this time? There’s a lot more to look through in your head than there was last time.”

“That’s a little creepy, you know?”

“That’s what all you muggle-borns say. So I’m left with a conundrum. I could send you back to Gryffindor, and with your history and friendships there, there _is_ something to be said for that. I could send you to Ravenclaw, your natural fit, but I stand by what I said before; Ravenclaw would be wasted on you. There’s also Hufflepuff. Loyalty, justice, hard work, and inclusiveness, you have. You can’t befriend the house elves without being at least a little Hufflepuff. You could do well there, but I honestly don’t see much point. You’ve already learnt the most important lessons you could learn from them. I might have done it to give Hufflepuff House a kick in the pants; they could do well to strive for more. But I think the ordeal their own Head Boy went through last year will do that well enough. No, they would do well to have you, but they don’t _need_ you.

“ _But_ ,” the Hat continued, “there is another option. A place that could benefit you and would benefit from your presence.”

_No!_

“Would you consider Slytherin, Miss Granger?”

“Are you mad?! I’ll be murdered in my bed!” she hissed.

The Hat fell silent, but she had the prickling sensation of it giving her the equivalent of a stern look. She could hear whispers building from the tables. Hardly anyone’s Sorting ever took this long.

“I just proved your point about the divisions between the houses, didn’t I?” she said.

“What do you think?”

“Okay, not murdered, but I still wouldn’t trust Parkinson and Bulstrode not to try something. I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Think before you dismiss it, Miss Granger. I can see in your mind that you took my warning to heart. Yes, it would take more courage than going back to Gryffindor, but how would it be if a former Gryffindor crossed over to Slytherin? How much good could you do to repair the divisions between the Houses simply by being there?”

Hermione did think about it. It didn’t sound completely crazy. There _were_ decent Slytherins out there, even though the loudest of them were disgusting bigots like Malfoy, whose father was an actual Death Eater. At present, though, Gryffindors and Slytherins wouldn’t so much as associate with each other even if they had been friends before Hogwarts. The prejudices and pressures of the older students ripped apart those fragile first-year friendships before long, and that was the fault of both houses. Having someone who could bear the slings and arrows reach out between them would be something unheard of for a generation at the school—at least to hear the older Gryffindors tell it. But could Hermione be that person? She wasn’t so sure.

“I’m not just any former Gryffindor, though,” she said. “I’m a muggle-born and a close associate of known anti-Voldemort fighters. Neither of those types of people would do very well in Slytherin.”

“So much the better to show your house doesn’t define you,” the Hat replied.

“Well, maybe,” she said, glossing over the implications of that last line. “But do you really think I could make a good Slytherin in the first place?”

“Oh, yes. Of that much I am certain, Miss Granger. You have more cunning and ambition than most of the first years I just Sorted into that House. Ambition doesn’t have to be about power, after all. Your drive to earn a N.E.W.T. in your fourth year and to open up new frontiers of arithmancy is ambition enough. And as for cunning, just as an example, blackmailing Rita Skeeter was a Slytherin scheme if I ever saw one.”

Her pulse quickened for a moment. “I hope what we’re discussing will remain confidential,” she said.

“I am magically bound not to reveal students’ secrets. So—”

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, there were audible gasps from around the Great Hall, including Professor McGonagall next to her. _What_ _’s that about?_ Hermione wondered.

The Hat read her mind and said, “We just passed five minutes on the stool. I never take more than five minutes to Sort a student unless they’re someone _very_ special.”

“Um, thanks, I think.”

“So,” it repeated, “I’ve demonstrated that you have Slytherin traits. But they’re not well-developed in you like the traits of the other houses are. Slytherin still has something useful to teach you. And you have something to teach Slytherin—how to reach out to the other houses, how to be defined by more than their ambition and the purity of their blood. What do you think, Miss Granger?”

Hermione’s pulse started to quicken again. The Hat was really serious. But she _did_ know it took one’s preferences into account. Perhaps it could be swayed by logic, too. “I can develop my cunning and ambition without being in Slytherin,” she said. “And I probably will. I’ll need it if the war heats up. Isn’t that the definition of not being defined by your House?”

“True enough. But what about reaching out to the other houses?”

“I can only do so much good for Slytherin if I’m constantly looking over my shoulder, Mr. Hat. And even if it would be easier to reach out to Slytherin _as_ a Slytherin, even as a muggle-born, it’s going to be hard to reach back out to Gryffindor, since most of them would see me as a traitor.”

“You would still have your friends. I can see in your mind that they are true to you. Even your boyfriend, despite the animosity of his family. Your fellow Slytherins—the better boys and girls among them—would also understand you wanting to maintain your old friendships.”

“I’d still lose the larger support network of Gryffindor House, and I’d have to reach out to both houses at once. The way I see it, it wouldn’t be any harder to reach out to Slytherin from Gryffindor, anyway. Professor Vector and Georgina are already friendly with me, and there are others who have never given me any trouble like Greengrass and Davis. I’d rather stay where I am and try to work for the good of the school from there.”

The Hat was silent for a moment, as if giving her own words time to sink into her mind. “You would do that?” it asked solemnly. “You would reach out to a house you have almost no connections with? Against the advice of your friends and the ire of your own house? On the advice of a ratty old hat?”

Hermione felt the weight of the words, but they didn’t shake her resolve. “Yes I would,” she whispered. “It’s the right thing to do.”

“Then you’ve chosen your true colours: GRYFFINDOR!”

Applause broke out at once, although that might have been more that people were glad she was finally done than actual congratulations. She could hear a few groans, too, likely because people were annoyed that she took so long only to go to the same house. When Professor McGonagall took the Hat back from her, she gave her an intrigued look and whispered, “I should very much like to know what _that_ was all about sometime, Miss Granger,” before motioning her along.

Hermione took her seat again as the other three transfer students were Sorted quickly, and Dumbledore opened the feast.

“It’s about time,” Ron said as he dug into his food. “What took you so long?”

“That Hat kept trying to put me in Slytherin,” she said.

They laughed, but when she didn’t laugh with them, they grew concerned.

“Wait, you were serious?” George said.

She nodded.

“Is it mad?! You’d be murdered in your bed!”

“That’s what I said, which was probably a bit hyperbolic, I admit.”

“But still, Slytherin?!” Fred said, scandalised. “That’s insane!”

“Well, I say good show, Miss Granger,” Nearly-Headless Nick cut it. “We haven’t had a Hatstall in ages.”

“What’s a Hatstall?” Harry spoke up for the first time.

“A Sorting that takes longer than five minutes, when a student is equally suited to more than one house. They’re very rare. If my memory serves—” Though that was far from a certain thing for a ghost. “—the last one we had was Professor McGonagall. I might have forgotten one, though…”

“That would explain why she was so interested,” Hermione said.

“But that can’t be right,” George protested. “You can’t be equally suited between Gryffindor and Slytherin. You’re nothing like a slimy Slytherin.”

“Slytherins aren’t slimy, George. I _do_ have two friends who are Slytherins.”

Fred started coughing and sputtering. “You do?” he said.

“Who?” George finished.

“Professor Vector and her grand-niece, Georgina.”

“Well, _they_ _’re_ alright, I guess.”

“But _you_ _’re_ still nothing like one,” Ron said.

Hermione sighed. “No, no, it was much more complex than that. The Hat told me my personality has always been Ravenclaw. I’m not a natural Gryffindor _or_ Slytherin, but I _do_ have some traits of both. In fact, most Gryffindors probably have more cunning and ambition than Crabbe and Goyle do.”

Her friends looked over at Malfoy’s goons and laughed.

“But why would the Hat want you in Slytherin?” Ginny said, getting back on track.

“Basically, it thought it was the house that could help me grow the most.”

“Yeah, grow into a pompous git,” Ron scoffed.

She glared at him: “There was more to it than that, Ronald. The Hat also thought if I switched houses, it would help bridge the divide between them.”

 “You mean trying to get all the Houses to be friends? Harry said, suddenly growing angry and looking back at Malfoy. “Fat chance.”

Hermione was surprised. Harry had nearly gone to Slytherin himself. “Harry—” she started.

“No, I mean it. You’ve got one friend there, sure, but that’s only “cause she’s Vector’s grand-niece, and she couldn’t hate you if she tried. Malfoy practically runs the place over there, and he’d just as soon see us all dead.”

“I’m sure Malfoy doesn’t speak for all of them, Harry. I’d bet there are quite a few Slytherins who don’t tow his line, only they’re afraid to say it. Maybe if we could connect them with one another, they would.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll believe it when I see it.”

Hermione frowned. She’d thought her best friend was more open-minded than that. “Well, maybe you will,” she said. “I told the Hat I’d try to reach out to Slytherin anyway.”

“What?” Harry and all the Weasleys were aghast. “Hermione, you can’t do that,” George pleaded with her. “They’ll hex you into next week.” The others nodded their agreement.

“Relax. I’m not going to just walk up and ask them. I’m going to use my Slytherin subtlety—since I apparently have some. I’ll ask Septima and Georgina to sound them out.”

“Oh. Well, that’s not so bad,” he said. “I still think you’re a little nutters, mind, but only your usual level of nutters.”

Hermione whacked George in the back of the head, but then she leaned against him affectionately, which was about as much as she could get away with in the Great Hall.

After the dinner, Dumbledore made his usual announcements, including introducing Dolores Umbridge as the new Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor, but then, something happened that horrified most of the Great Hall.

Umbridge _interrupted_ Dumbledore.

No one said anything, but the shock was palpable. She’d cut in right in the middle of his announcement about Quidditch tryouts. No doubt, many of the students were thinking that if Dumbledore weren’t under such a thick cloud, they’d be scraping the new teacher off the floor right now.

The pink-clad woman cleared her throat with an affected _“Hem, hem”_ sound and said, _“Thank you, Headmaster, for those kind of words of welcome,”_ as if she were talking perfectly in turn. Her voice was high and girlish to match her outfit, as if she had never really grown up from being a (no doubt highly disagreeable) little girl. She greeted the school like a bunch of five-year-olds and then launched into an alarmingly long political speech.

Hermione wished she’d brought her Dictaquill with her, but at least she always carried a muggle mechanical pencil and parchment on her, in case she wanted to do some figuring, so she jotted down notes on Professor Umbridge’s main points lest she miss anything important. What it boiled down to was that the Ministry was allegedly concerned that students were not taught at Hogwarts in a way that preserved the great traditions of wizarding culture, or some such platitudes. Proper education was to be supported by a balance between old and new, between permanence and change, and other such Orwellian doublethink, and she mentioned “pruning practises that ought to be prohibited” a few too many times for Hermione’s liking. To those in the know, it was pretty clear that the ulterior motive was to stop Dumbledore from teaching the school his “point of view” about Voldemort being back, and, if her brief skim of the Defence textbook was any indication, to make absolutely sure he couldn’t use the Defence classes to foment insurrection against the Ministry. The very thought would have been ludicrous had it not been for the behind the scenes information she’d heard from the Order that that was precisely what Fudge feared.

This was definitely not a good sign.

As they climbed to the dorms, Hermione started to notice that Harry was getting odd looks. Fearful looks, even. She might have thought it was because of his show of power against that dragon last year, but having read the _Daily Prophet_ all summer, she knew better. Harry Potter was mental unstable and might go nuts and try to hex you at any moment, thinking you were You-Know-Who, or something like that. Looking across the Hall, Cedric didn’t look to be in much better shape. He still walked with a bit of a limp on his wooden leg, and people were giving him a wide berth. He _claimed_ he’d lost his arm and leg to Barty Crouch Jr (and that particular Death Eater _was_ still officially on the loose), but he admitted he was unconscious for most of the encounter. Who knew what _really_ happened?

“But Lily, this is Harry Potter we’re talking about. You’ve been saying how great a hero he is yourself for four years!”

Hermione didn’t realise she was walking into an argument in her dormitory until she was literally in the middle of it. Her old roommate, Lily Moon, looked almost like a different person from when she’d last seen her. Gone were her irregular braids and relaxed expression. Instead, she had her hair in one long plait down her back, and she looked far more serious than she had last year. Her girlfriend, Sally-Anne, was pleading with her to see reason, but she wasn’t having it. “I told you what the papers said. Potter’s off his rocker. Fainting spells, confusion, headaches—you can’t trust what he says. And Dumbledore—he’s either going senile, or he’s using him—”

“He is not!”

Hermione and Parvati stared at each other as they had said the same thing at the same time.

“Dumbledore is the only person Voldemort was ever afraid of,” Hermione said. All four of her roommates jumped when she said the name. “He knows him better than anyone. If he and Harry say he’s back, I believe them.”

“Hermione, You-Know-Who died fourteen years ago,” their remaining roommate, Lavender Brown, jumped into the fray. “Magic can’t bring people back from the dead. Ever.”

“Voldemort isn’t dead, Lavender,” Hermione protested. “I saw him with my own eyes. He was possessing Quirrell in first year as some kind of dark spirit.”

“That’s impossible,” Lavender protested.

“Who says so?”

“Come on, Lav, you know Hermione isn’t a liar,” Parvati said.

Lavender sighed: “No, she’s not, but that doesn’t mean she saw You-Know-Who. I don’t know what you think you saw, Hermione, but—”

“Quirrell had a second face on the back of his head!” Hermione snapped. “A face with glowing red eyes and slits for a nose! Sound familiar?”

All the other girls cringed. Voldemort’s appearance was always discussed in hushed tones if at all in the wizarding world, but Hermione knew her words would ring true. They had so much of an air of dark magic.

Sally-Anne was the first to recover. “You see, Lily?” she demanded. “Hermione knows what she’s talking about!”

“Hermione’s just trying to scare you, Sally-Anne,” Lily said.

“She _should_ be scared!” Hermione said. “ _I_ _’m_ scared. Don’t you see? We’re both muggle-borns. This is the kind of thing we need to be on guard for. But if you and Lavender want to keep on believing the _Daily Prophet_ over people you’ve personally looked up to for the past four years, there’s nothing more I can say to you.”

“Oh come on, it’s just one escaped Death Eater. We had scares like that before.”

“No.” Sally-Anne cut her off.

“What?” Lily said in disbelief.

“Hermione’s right, Lily. I don’t believe it’s just one escaped Death Eater. Muggle-borns know how to spot a propaganda campaign, and that’s exactly what the _Daily Prophet_ is turning into. If you want to keep believing them, I don’t have anything to say to you.”

“Sally-Anne—” Lily pleaded, but the muggle-born girl was already climbing into her bed and closing the curtains. “Sally-Anne!” she repeated, but there was no answer. Unable to get through to her, she despondently climbed into her own bed.

“Wow…” Lavender said. “I can’t believe she did that.”

“She kind of has a point,” Parvati said.

“What, you too, Parv?”

“Yes, me too, Lav! Honestly! _You_ _’re_ the one who kept saying how brilliant Harry is after he fought that dragon. And why would Dumbledore want to discredit Fudge _now_ instead of after the dementor incident or something? _And_ I’m not very happy about how you’re treating Hermione and Sally-Anne.”

“Well, they shouldn’t be following that loon and—”

_“Epoximise!”_

“Mmm! Mm! MMMMM!”

Hermione had cast lightning-fast and made Lavender’s mouth stick closed. “You can just keep your big, fat mouth shut about my friends, okay?” she said.

_“MMM!?”_

Parvati looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be angry or amused. “Hermione, you can’t just do that in front of a prefect,” she said, trying not to laugh.

“Sorry. _Finite_.”

“Hmpf. You and Parv can hang out with _those boys_ , then,” Lavender said indignantly. “I’m sure the _real_ truth will come out soon.” And she stomped back to her own bed.

“You won’t like it when it does,” Hermione muttered under her breath. “It’s good to see you, Parv. Good night.”

“Good night, Hermione.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is almost everywhere continuous and everywhere JK Rowling.
> 
> Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

There was one bit of reprieve the next day, which was that the school had the whole weekend to relax before classes started. That gave Hermione some time to catch up on some important work. If only everyone else weren’t drawing on her time.

 _“No, I told her to keep her big fat mouth shut about you, actually,”_ she told Harry after he snapped at her for mentioning her credulous roommates. _“And it would be quite nice if you stopped jumping down Ron’s and my throats, Harry, because if you haven’t noticed, we’re on your side.”_

_“Sorry,” said Harry in a low voice._

_“That’s quite alright—”_

“Hermione, control your boyfriend and his idiot brother!”

“Parvati?” she said in confusion. “What is it?” Parvati was very excited to hear last night that Hermione had an official boyfriend, but she was looking much less pleased now. The prefect waved a piece of parchment in Hermione’s face, which had been ripped from the notice board. She grabbed it and read:

 

_Gallons of Galleons!_

_Pocket money failing to keep pace with your outgoings?_

_Like to learn a little extra gold?_

_Contact Fred and George Weasley,_

_Gryffindor common room,_

_for simple, part-time, virtually painless jobs._

_(We regret that all work is undertake at applicant_ _’s own risk.)_

“ _Virtually_ painless?” Hermione read. “Applicant’s own risk? They can’t do this!”

“Yeah, well, tell them that.”

“I will as soon as I see them, Parv. Don’t worry.”

Hermione didn’t see hide nor hair of the Twins in the Common Room, but she soon ran into them at breakfast.

“There you two are,” she told them. “George, Fred, you can’t advertise for testers on the notice board.”

“Says who?” Fred demanded.

“Says Parvati and Ron—”

“Wait, what?” Ron said cluelessly.

“—and me,” she added.

“Hey, we’re just trying to make sure our products work as advertised,” George said with his winning smile.

Hermione wasn’t buying it: “What, your Skiving Snackboxes again? There are safer and more worthwhile things you could be working on.”

Fred grinned at her: “You say that now, Hermione, but you’re in O.W.L. classes now. You’ll be begging for a Skiving Snackbox by Christmas.”

“ _I_ completed a N.E.W.T. course in Arithmancy in just one year, Fred. I think I can manage.”

“She _does_ kinda have a point,” George agreed. Fred didn’t have an answer to that.

There was a break in the conversation as the mail was delivered. Hermione thumbed through her _Daily Prophet_ (she wanted to know what the enemy was thinking), but she didn’t see anything relevant to the war or the cover-up of the war, so she returned to mentally planning her weekend. She had a lot to do, and much of it she wanted to finish as much as she could before classes started, but when she thought about it, it was really no contest what to do first. After breakfast, she headed straight to Septima’s office.

Septima Vector had only been Hermione’s teacher for three years, but she was still her favourite by far. Hogwarts’s Arithmancy Professor was brilliant, open-minded, and still active in research and thus eager to learn about new advanced maths. Not everyone could pull that off. Hermione had had far to little contact with Septima over the past year, and she wanted to catch up.

However, Septima wasn’t in her office—not surprising, since classes hadn’t begun—so Hermione tried her apartment instead. Hermione had first joined Septima for tea in her apartment early in her first year after being one of the few students to figure out where the teachers’ quarters were. She talked her way past the absent-minded portrait of Bridget Wenlock, and the door opened just a crack, held back by a chain.

Septima gave a delighted exclamation and shut the door to undo the chain and let Hermione in.

“Hermione, it’s so good to see you,” she said, hugging her former student.

“You too, Septima,” she replied. “You’re not expecting trouble, are you?” She indicated the chain.

“Oh, that? No. I just wanted a little warning to make sure our new Defence Professor couldn’t barge in unannounced.”

“Ah. I understand completely,” said Hermione. “I’ve only seen her “welcome speech,” and I already don’t like her.”

“Yes, but do be careful, Hermione. Professor Umbridge is very shrewd and ruthless in pursuing her goals. Anyway, come in; I’ll get you some tea.”

It was a different feeling taking tea with Septima now that she had her N.E.W.T., and now they had some major collaborations under their belts. They were much more like equals now, even if Hermione didn’t have the same official qualifications yet. It felt more like a professional setting, which she enjoyed.

“I wanted to congratulate you on finishing your N.E.W.T.,” Septima said. “Completing it at all at fifteen is a major achievement, let alone with your usual level of excellence.”

“Thank you,” Hermione replied with a smile. “Of course, we’ll all be getting the recognition if we get the Wenlock or Gamp Prize. That’s what I’m really hoping for.”

“And you’d deserve it. I know I didn’t do all that much—”

“Of course you did.”

“Alright, but you were definitely the leader. And I think our work will be a shoo-in for the Gamp, at least. So have you given any thought to what you want to do next?”

“Of course.” Hermione withdrew a textbook from her shoulder bag. “I’ve already started on my next muggle maths course. Real Analysis.” She handed the book over for Septima to thumb through. “It’s all about the underlying principles and generalisations of the techniques of calculus. So, things like convergence, limits, differentiability, generalised operations like Lebesgue integration, alternative expansions of functions, like Fourier series—”

“I think I get the picture,” the professor said. “This looks…complicated—hold up. Is this one of those fractals you were talking about a couple years ago?” She held the book open to a page that showed a spiky, zigzagging graph.

“Oh, yes, that’s the Weierstrass Function—the first fractal that was clearly described in the mathematical literature. Of course, Weierstrass wasn’t thinking in terms of fractals yet. He just constructed it as an example of a function that is everywhere continuous and nowhere differentiable. It took a hundred years of work and a lot of complex analysis and computer calculation to develop it into the field of fractal geometry.”

“Everywhere…everywhere continuous, but nowhere…My goodness!” Septima had nearly forgotten how hard it was to keep up with this girl’s mind. “Hermione, if I go mad from the revelations you’re giving me this year, I’m taking you down with me.”

Hermione couldn’t help giggling. Wizards hadn’t quite come to terms with the more mind-bending aspects of mathematics yet. _And that_ _’s why I’m a Gryffindor, and you were a Slytherin,_ she thought. “It’s really not that bad, Septima,” she insisted. “I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask if I could do my mastery with you?”

Septima nearly dropped her teacup. “Your mastery?” she said. “Hermione, I’m flattered. I know I talked about you doing your mastery with me before you graduated, but then you switch schools…”

“I know. And it’s even more complicated now. I’ll be back at Beauxbatons next spring and the following autumn, and after that, I’ll be of age, and God knows what will be happening with the war, and I really don’t know where I’ll be. But I want to keep on track this autumn. I want to get started on my mastery, at least. I thought we did pretty well collaborating at a distance last spring, and you’re the best arithmancer I know. To be perfectly honest, I don’t think Monsieur Oppenord at Beauxbatons could keep up with me if I tried to work with him.”

“Hermione, I’m not convinced that _I_ _’ll_ be able to keep up with you, but if you want to work with me, I’m sure we can find a way to do it. I’d be honoured to mentor you.”

“Thank you so much, Septima!” Hermione jumped up and hugged her.

“You’re welcome. Oh, I’ve missed you, Hermione,” she said wistfully. “It’s not the same without you at Hogwarts. So do you have any idea what you want to do for your mastery?”

“Not really. By next summer, I’ll have done enough courses to get a muggle bachelor’s degree in maths—the equivalent of our mastery, so I won’t have a complete picture until then. And in the meantime, I’m going to be researching spells to fight the Death Eaters, and that’s the kind of thing I can’t really publish.”

“So we’ll just have to see what comes up this autumn,” Septima said. “That’s fine. For now, I can keep teaching you the advanced arithmancy techniques you’ll need for your mastery. We can continue meeting on Saturdays, like we did in your third year.”

“That sounds wonderful. And I’ll see if I can help you wrap your mind around real analysis.”

“Oh, joy,” she muttered.

“So…what did you think about the Sorting Hat’s song this year?” Hermione asked. “It was really different from usual.”

“Yes. Very worrying. The Hat said those kinds of things a couple of times in the last war. I don’t need to remind you how that went. Most of the teachers have been worried about the disunity between the houses for a long time, and the war made it worse. I believe Professor Dumbledore, by the way. After your first two years here, I’d have to.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that, and I know Harry does.”

She nodded. “By the way, what took you so long with your re-Sorting? I would’ve thought that would be just a rubber stamp.”

“Oh, that. You might not believe me, but the Hat wanted me to switch to Slytherin.”

At that, Septima gave her a very appraising look and stroked her chin. “If you weren’t muggle-born, I could see that,” she said.

“You could?”

“Of course. The Hat only puts muggle-borns into Slytherin if they really can’t fit anywhere else, but with the way you’ve grown over the past four years, you have a personality to do well there other than that.”

“Well, thanks. That’s more than my friends could say. You know, now that I’ve thought about it, I really think the Hat was right. They say “if a house be divided against itself, that house cannot stand,” and a school won’t do any better.”

“I quite agree. But there’s only so much we can do. I’ve never seen anyone make much headway in bridging the gap between the houses. And the fault lies on both sides.”

“Oh, I know the fault lies on both sides. But still, I feel like there ought to be something we can do. I don’t think the Sorting Hat would say all that if the situation were hopeless.”

Septima opened her mouth and paused for a moment. It wasn’t easy to keep up with Hermione, but she was starting to get an inkling of what she was thinking. “You’re planning something, aren’t you?” she said.

“I don’t know how much I can say that right now. I _would_ like to try to make some connections with the Slytherins, though. Try to undo some of the damage. Right now, you and Georgina are the only Slytherins who will give me the time of day, and that’s not right. I just don’t know how to go about it, though, or really even whom to talk to.”

“Hmm…” she thought about it. “You know this is a dangerous path, don’t you. Your friends probably won’t appreciate you reaching out to Slytherin, and Slytherin _really_ won’t like you trying to interfere with them.”

“That’s what the Sorting Hat said. I’d still like to try, though. It’s just the right thing to do.”

“Ah. And there’s the Gryffindor I know so well. Well, if you’re not going to listen to reason, I suppose I can give you some advice.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Hermione said.

Septima chuckled: “Of course you did. The main thing is don’t just walk up and ask people. Find some other reason to talk to them. Ask Georgina about her friends and see if she’ll introduce you. Find one of the friendlier Slytherins in your year and ask to study with them—ideally on a subject they can genuinely help you with. And of course you can help them with Arithmancy.”

“I _am_ a little behind in Charms and Magical Creatures,” she admitted. Beauxbatons’s fourth year curriculum wasn’t quite as rigorous at Hogwarts’s, and the teachers in those two subjects in particular weren’t as good. The same would apply to Herbology, but she could ask Neville for that, and everyone knew it.

“That would be a good start. And I think your best chance would be Tracey Davis. She’s a half-blood, and she’s not close with the more…”

“Bigoted?”

“Well, yes. And her friend, Daphne Greengrass, has excellent marks in most of her classes. If you really want to do this, try asking to study with them, and don’t even mention making connections with the other Gryffindors to start with. Even when you do bring it up, start by asking if they’re interested in expanding the study group. I believe your friend Ronald is gifted in Ancient Runes, for example.”

“Ron might not be the best person to start with, but I get the picture. But does it really matter that much? Won’t they get suspicious if I approach them even with something so benign?”

“Of course they will. But they’ll still appreciate you getting to know them before you start talking politics. In Slytherin, making that kind of investment in someone is a big deal. Patience is a valuable asset there. If you play your cards right, I think you can at least make some Slytherin friends, and that’s a worthy goal in itself. It’s been too many years since I’ve seen a successful friendship between a Gryffindor and a Slytherin in this school. I’d be glad to see you do even that much.”

“Well, I’ll certainly do my best, Septima.”

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the morning talking Arithmancy with Septima, and they agreed to meet each Saturday morning afterwards. After lunch, although she still had a lot of people she wanted to catch up with, there was one particular project that was most pressing: the Marauder’s Map—or rather her own version of the Marauder’s Map. She’d spent much of that last week at Grimmauld Place copying down the runic “programming” from the original Map and putting together a high-quality copy of her own. She would have preferred to figure it all out on her own and really do it right, but she needed to be able to use it for security purposes as soon as possible. By the time she got back to Hogwarts, she’d done as much as she could without having the actual data coming in from the wards. To pull that bit off, there was only only place in the school she could go, so she made her way to the kitchens.

“Miss Hermione Granger! Miss Hermione Granger has come back!”

Hermione had been friends with many of the Hogwarts house elves since her first year. The elves loved any witch or wizard who took the time to visit them regularly, and they were overwhelmed by someone treating them like actual people, as Hermione did. As soon as she walked in, they swarmed around her legs.

Dobby was there, of course. Hermione had told him to renew his subcontract with Hogwarts as soon as she knew she was coming back. The other elf she was most eager to see was Sonya. Hermione had met Sonya when she was still a rebellious teenage elf (rebellious by elf standards, anyway). She had matured some since then, but she was still an Exploding Snap card shark as of last year, and she still wore a tool belt cinched tight enough around her waist to show an elfin figure. Hermione had always thought Sonya looked a bit more human, by elf standards. That was probably mostly down to her little snub nose, although the cobalt-blue eyes and scraggly blond hair didn’t hurt.

There were other elves she knew well, like Tilly, Sonya’s grandmother who was the elves’ schoolteacher, Vanny, Remie, Flory the Head Elf, and a tiny little elfling named Smidgen, and all of them were talking over each other to greet her. After greeting them all and wading through them and explaining that, yes, she was back at Hogwarts this year, though just for the autumn term, she finally managed to speak uninterrupted with Dobby and Sonya. She first enquired how Winky was doing; Winky was an elf who was unfairly dismissed by her master and had spent most of the past year drunk. She was pleased to see that Winky was now working with the cleaning crew and didn’t break down in tears when she talked to her.

“Sonya has been making sure Winky is taking care of herself, Miss Hermione,” the younger elf said proudly. “I is making sure she is not touching the Butterbeer.”

“Winky thinks Sonnitt has too much fun with that, miss,” Winky grumbled.

“Oh dear. What did you do to her, Sonya?” Hermione said.

“I is hanging Winky up with the pots and pans when she is bad, miss,” Sonya said as Winky gave her a dirty look.

Hermione tried not to giggle. “Well, it’s good to see all of you again. I had a favour to ask of you, Sonya.”

“Yes, Miss Hermione?” she said eagerly.

“I’m working on a special runes project, and—could you help me get down to the anchor stones of the castle?”

Sonya’s ears drooped. “Oh…” she said sadly. “I is sorry, but it is off limits to students without a teacher, miss. We cannot be helping students break the rules.”

“Oh, right…Could you show Dobby how to get there? His contract with me trumps his contract with Hogwarts.”

Sonya grinned: “You is very tricksy, Miss Hermione. That will work.”

“Sonnitt!” Tilly hissed. “You shoulds not be doing that. You will be causing trouble.”

“It’s alright, Tilly,” Hermione assured her. “This project will help make the school safer. My parents even asked me to do it.”

“It will, miss?”

“Mm hmm. It’ll help make sure there aren’t any bad wizards around.”

“You see, Grandmum?” Sonya said. “Miss Hermione is being a responsible witch.”

Tilly grumbled a little more, but she let them go.

Hermione knew very little about the anchor stones of the castle, but her friend Michel at Beauxbatons had explained the principle. A large, magical building like Hogwarts had to be built on a major ley line convergence. The anchor stones were a stone circle built underneath the castle that channelled the energy from the ley lines to fuel the magic of the building and grounds. Hagrid had mentioned to her once that the tunnel leading from the crystal cave where the boathouse was led to the anchor stones, but she didn’t know anything else about them.

Sonya led her and Dobby across the basement to the base of the Grand Staircase. Hermione had seen this place before when she first started mapping out the castle. At what appeared to be the bottom of the stairs were a large pair of double doors that were kept locked at all times.

“Now, Dobby, there is being a special way through these doors for elves if we needs it. Students is not supposed to go down there, though, without a teacher.” She showed Dobby the elfish incantation to unlock the doors, and they swung open.

Behind the doors was another staircase, this one a large, circular spiral cut directly into the rock face. Directly beneath the mosaic floor at the base of the Great Tower turned out to be a shaft sunk deep into the mountain on which the castle stood. The steps were wide, but the walls were angled so that the shaft widened as it descended, and it clearly led all the way down to the lake level, if not lower. There were no torches on these stairs, but the whole shaft seemed to be lit with a soft, white light from below. The three of them descended the staircase. It was dark, with just enough light to see, but already, Hermione could see light glinting off pieces of quartz jutting out from the granite walls.

“Sonya is glad Dobby is back,” the younger elf said conversationally.

“You are?” Hermione said.

“You is?” Dobby echoed, equally surprised. The two of them hadn’t got along well when Dobby first started working there.

“Yes. It is being much more interesting with you heres, Dobby.”

Hermione smiled. That was certainly true. Dobby was the most unusual elf she’d ever met.

As they climbed down further, the quartz became more common, and she soon realised that it was itself glowing with a faint white light, which grew brighter as it descended. As they drew closer, they could see what was at the bottom clearly. It was a stone circle, but nothing like any stone circle Hermione had ever seen. In fact, there were two concentric circles of a total of twenty-four perfect trilithons of pure, white, glowing quartz standing on the black and shimmering floor of the shaft. The walls and stairs were also solid quartz, though of varying pale hues, up to a greater height than the standing stones. The trilithons were not quite evenly spaced, but were clustered just slightly towards the north and south ends of the shaft. Hermione was sure the spacing was significant, but she wasn’t sure what it meant just yet.

“Sonya has never been down here before,” Sonya whispered. “It is so beautiful.”

“Dobby has never felt magic like this.”

Hermione knew from Ancient Runes class that quartz was the hardest mineral that could be found in large quantities, and thus made the most powerful runes, so it wasn’t surprising that the anchor stones were carved in that material, but she’d never expected them to look like this. When they reached the floor, she finally got a clear look. The trilithons were about eight feet wide and twelve high, and every inch was covered in runes. The outer circle of sixteen trilithons was about sixty feet across. Most of the light wasn’t coming from the stones as a whole, but specifically from the runes that were carved into them, which glowed very brightly. The amount of magic flowing through them to do that must be enormous. The floor turned out to be a smooth sheet of black onyx, which was also carved with runes that glowed in soft silver. The runes were mixed Norse, Latin, Greek, and Hebrew, as well as geometric designs. She could feel the magic radiating from the stones crackling on her skin. She knew now why Hogwarts was considered the most powerful concentration of magic in the British Isles.

Hermione was moved almost to tears. The most complicated runic enchantment she had ever seen was Professor Babbling’s protection for the Philosopher’s Stone in first year. That had been incredibly complicated and powerful, but it was child’s play compared with these anchor stones. She felt small, seeing how much she still had to learn. The Founders’ work here was possibly the greatest masterpiece of magic she would ever see in her life.

And the Marauders had gone and defaced _this?_

 _“A small chip of rock and no more, perhaps, in a whole anxious day.”_ The words came to her mind unbidden from Tolkien, and they fit. It seemed almost like sacrilege. She couldn’t believe that even they would be disrespectful enough to do something like that. She wasn’t sure she could even bear to cut the runes to link her map with the Marauder’s previous work.

But as she looked and walked around the stones, she started to see an odd pattern. Certain squares of rock on the floor had a different texture—one behind each of the trilithons, about six feet square each—and the runes in those slabs glowed less brightly. She knelt down for a closer look, feeling the surface, running her fingers down the grooves, examining how the light played off them.

“This isn’t onyx,” she muttered. She drew her wand and cast a few charms she had learnt in Ancient Runes—charms to identify rocks and the quality thereof. They never had to use them in class except for a few exercises, and she had to think for a minute to remember what the patterns of light from her wand meant, but she soon had it. “Obsidian,” she said. “It’s obsidian.” Obsidian had a long magical tradition of its own, though more so in the Americas. It had a similar composition and was also jet black, but it was only half as hard as the onyx. And on closer inspection, the runes carved in the obsidian slabs weren’t quite as perfect as the others—a slightly different size, not quite in alignment, cut with a different tool, possibly a later addition…

Hermione laughed out loud as she realised what the obsidian slabs were. “Scratch parchment!” she exclaimed, to the elves’ confusion. “They’re scratch parchment.”

“What is you meaning?” Sonya said. “This is not parchment.”

“Not literal parchment. They’re slabs of softer rock for later generations of headmasters and teachers to write their own additions and improvements to the wards. They could even test new wards before carving them into the anchor stones. It’s brilliant! The Founders thought of everything! And that means the Marauders didn’t have to ruin this masterpiece…” She started walking around the circles quickly, searching for the slab that had the runes she was looking for. “They could have carved their runes into the obsidian, and no one would have noticed…there!”

Carved into a corner of the east-facing obsidian slab of the outer circle was a cluster of runes that fed information from the castle wards to a particular linked cluster somewhere else—specifically on the Marauder’s Map, up in Harry’s dorm. Hermione withdrew her reference sheet and quickly worked out the runes she needed to add. There weren’t many—the Marauders had done most of the work—just a couple to tie in another rune cluster and a few more to expand the one on the slab to send all of the information she needed from the wards.

She used a hammer and chisel to cut the new runes. It was backbreaking work, kneeling over the stone slab, but it was best not to use magic or any items that were enchanted in any way to cut powerful runes to avoid magical interference. Sonya asked what she was doing, and explained as best she could to the elf. Sonya was pleased that she would be able to detect bad wizards like Barty Crouch Jr, who had slipped in under everyone’s noses last year. When she was done, Hermione pulled out another piece of parchment and read the information it was receiving through the linked runes. The raw data was hard to interpret, but she worked out that she had everything she needed—well, it was everything the Marauder’s Map had, anyway. The places in the castle where space didn’t behave normally would need some more work.

“Perfect!” she exclaimed. “Thank you so much, Sonya, Dobby.” She hugged them both at once. “Everything’s all set. I’ll have the new security measures working soon.” She made a note to take a more thorough look at this place later, and to figure out what was up with the alignment of the stones, and started climbing the stairs again.

* * *

Hermione had the data now, but she still had to make her own runic “programming” work properly. It took her the whole rest of Saturday and part of Sunday to fully “debug” it and make sure it was all working the way she wanted. She hid away from the world until it was done, but now, she was ready to make her big debut. She quickly tracked down George and Fred and dragged them to a secluded classroom.

“Alright, Hermione, so what’s this big secret?” asked Fred.

“Just a little project I’ve been working on for the past two weeks,” she said with a smirk. She produced what appeared to be a blank piece of parchment. Her version was only three-quarters the size of the original—eighteen by twenty-seven inches—and it folded to about the size of a standard road map. And, of course, it only had a single sheet. She unfolded it to a half-fold, then touched her wand to the parchment and spoke the pass phrase: _“Dos moi pa sto, kai tan gan kinaso.”_ Archimedes. _Give me a place to stand, and I will move the earth._ A sketch of Hogwarts Castle overlooking the Black Lake appeared on the parchment, and above it was written a title in Hermione’s tidy script:

 

_Lady Archimedes_

_is proud to present_

_The Mathemagician_ _’s Map_

“You finished it,” they whispered.

“I finished it,” she replied.

George grabbed her by the shoulders and snogged her hard. She was stunned for a moment, but she went with it eagerly, wrapping her arms around him, leaving her breathless when he let her go.

“You are _brilliant_ ,” he said with a grin.

“I had a lot of help.”

“Still brilliant.”

“I’d kiss you, but I’m in too good a mood to duel George over it,” said Fred.

“Oi!”

“Technically, this is still a work in progress,” Hermione admitted, opening it up and showing a perfect magical rendering of the ground floor. At present, she didn’t have anything definite for the other side of the map. For now, she just had the sketch of Hogwarts on the front “cover” and a map of the grounds on the back, but she was considering other options such as a user manual. “Right now, it only shows what the original Marauder’s Map does.”

“‘Only,” she says,” George said, laughing.

“‘Only,” she says,” Fred repeated.

“Well, the original doesn’t show the Chamber of Secrets or the Room of Requirement or the elf quarters. And I’m not sure _what_ to do about that mess at the top of the Grand Staircase. I’ll have to examine the wards more carefully to figure that out. Plus, I want to make it automatically open to the floor you’re on instead of the ground floor—”

George cut her off by kissing her again.

“How did I land a girl like you?” he said.

“Clearly, I was Confunded,” she deadpanned.

Hermione started to show them how the map worked, tapping a series of icons with her wand that hid the students, staff, elves, and ghosts (including Peeves) and highlighted anyone anomalous. She scrolled through the floors, but didn’t find anything. “Well, there’s no one here who isn’t supposed to be tonight,” she concluded. “So that’s something.”

“Good to know,” George agreed.

“Well, brother,” said Fred, “it looks like it’s gonna be an interesting year.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Detention to anyone who fails to credit JK Rowling for creating Harry Potter!
> 
> Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
> 
> I’m not sure what JK Rowling was thinking when she had dinner at Hogwarts start before Harry’s five o’clock detention, especially since sending him to bed without supper is totally something Umbridge would do. Dinner is served promptly at six o’clock in my Hogwarts.

“Phew. History, double Potions, Arithmancy, and double Defence,” Harry said, examining his schedule. “Gonna be a long day.”

“Maybe it won’t be so bad,” Hermione said, not really believing it. Two and likely three of those classes were not pleasant at Hogwarts. Suddenly, she remembered something she hadn’t had time to think about all last year. Before she left Hogwarts last time, she had presented a rather extensive list of complaints against Professor Snape to Professor McGonagall. Had anything ever been done about them? She wondered. But she tried to encourage Harry: “We could probably do worse than a Ministry worker for Defence Professor— _have_ done worse, depending on how you think about it. And I think you’ll like fifth year Arithmancy, Harry. You’ll get to make your own spells this year. And the advanced algebra techniques are much more useful for—”

“Will you lay off, Hermione?” Harry snapped, and Hermione jerked back with wide eyes. “Everyone knows how much _you_ love arithmancy. It doesn’t come so easy to the rest of us. You’re always going on about it, and it drives me mad sometimes.” And then, he stood up and stormed out of the Great Hall without finishing his breakfast.

“Harry!” Hermione called after him, but he didn’t look back. “What on earth was that?” she said. “I’ve never seen him snap like that before.”

“I have,” Ginny said.

“You have?” she asked in shock.

“Well, sort of. When he had that fake fight with me, it started to seem pretty real. He’s never talked about getting annoyed with Arithmancy, though.”

“Why would he say that, then?”

“Dunno. I think he’s just on edge today. He already yelled at me when I mentioned my roommates don’t believe him about You-Know-Who, even though I told them to shut their big, fat mouths, or I’d shut them for them.”

“Really? He did that to me on Saturday. He really shouldn’t be taking out his anger on his friends,” Hermione said with a frown.

“Who else does he have, though?” Ginny said. “I guess Sirius, but he doesn’t like fighting with Sirius. I just let him let off some steam as long as he doesn’t push it too far.”

Hermione could understand that. Harry was so neglected growing up he didn’t have healthy ways to deal with his anger as much as most people, and he saw Sirius as such a father figure; he wouldn’t want to hurt their relationship. But that still didn’t explain why things were so different this year. Stress about Voldemort being back? Plain teenage angst? Hermione’s gut told her she was still missing something, but she couldn’t guess what.

History was by far the most boring class at Hogwarts. Professor Binns was an absent-minded ghost who lectured about things that were largely irrelevant and might still have possibly been interesting if he didn’t speak like he was trying to bore you to death. Given the Sorting Hat’s warning and the old saw about people who didn’t learn from their history, Hermione had to think that wasn’t doing anyone any favours. But she’d asked in first year and found that with the tenure system at Hogwarts, it would be almost impossible to get rid of him.

The double Potions lesson turned out to be a disaster for most of the class, who failed miserably at brewing a usable Draught of Peace. Snape vanished Harry’s entirely, and not without reason, Hermione thought privately. The Draught of Peace wasn’t a very forgiving potion. Fortunately, Harry’s bizarre outburst of anger at breakfast seemed to have subsided, and he didn’t dig himself in deeper. So far so good.

* * *

Hermione had a free period after lunch when many of the other fifth years had either Arithmancy or Divination, including Harry. Interestingly, hardly anyone ever took both classes. She never had quite figured out how Percy had managed it.

Harry wasn’t quite sure why he had snapped at Hermione at breakfast—or Ginny before, or Hermione again over the weekend. He’d been feeling these odd flashes of anger that came upon him for seemingly no reason, and it just happened. Fortunately, he was calmer now, which was good because Arithmany wasn’t particularly friendly territory. Dean Thomas was there, but no other Gryffindors. Most of the class were Ravenclaws and Slytherins. Worse, Malfoy was there, though he at least didn’t have his goons with him. Harry was sure Malfoy would use what he learnt in the class to invent some nasty new curses at the first opportunity, although according to Hermione, that probably wouldn’t until seventh year.

Luckily, Professor Vector ran a tight ship, and Malfoy rarely caused half as much trouble in this class as he did in Potions or Magical Creatures. Despite being a former Slytherin, she was one of the most impartial teachers. She cared about actual talent more than anything else. Hence, she absolutely loved Hermione.

“Since you will be sitting your Ordinary Wizarding Level exam in this class next spring,” Vector said at the beginning of class, we will be stepping up the work. I will be assigning O.W.L.-level problems for homework to prepare you, and I will be grading by O.W.L. standards.”

A few of the class groaned. They’d already got this from their other teachers. But not that many, considering the class had so many Ravenclaws. Professor Vector went on to outline what they would be studying this year. According to Hermione, it was roughly equivalent to a muggle Algebra II class. And they would also begin crafting simple charms. Apparently, it wasn’t as easy as Hermione made it look—no surprise there. It took a lot of practice to be able the craft spells that weren’t fifteen or twenty syllables long. Or that required a prohibitively complex wand movement. Or had to be cast whilst facing true north or something weird like that. Hermione never really talked about how many spells she discarded in her work, but it had to be at least a few.

There wasn’t much else he didn’t know about this year’s class, and it seemed pretty similar to his previous two years of Arithmancy—a lot of hard work with a long way to go to a big payoff—but at least it was a welcome break from his other classes that day.

Defence class didn’t go so well.

“Professor” Umbridge had foregone her pink hair band today in favour of a black bow, which looked like a large fly perched unwisely on an even larger toad. She still talked to the class like nursery school children and expected them to answer her in unison like it was the 1950s or something—at least, that was the impression Harry got from the little television he saw growing up. Even if she hadn’t tried to railroad him at his trial, he still wouldn’t have liked her.

Hermione was wary of Umbridge both because of Harry’s dislike for her and because of her opening speech. Granted, the “wands away” instruction by itself was only a small red flag. The heading she wrote on the blackboard, _Defence Against the Dark Arts: A Return to Basic Principles_ , sounded good on parchment, especially after so many years of failed teachers. However, the “theory-centred, Ministry approved” bit was more worrying. The course aims, emphasising the legal aspects of defensive magic, weren’t problematic _per se_ , but knowing Umbridge’s agenda, they were very suspicious.

But the real deal-breaker was when Umbridge told the class to read Chapter One of the textbook for the entire period. That was too much for Hermione even if the woman _didn_ _’t_ have an agenda. Hermione raised her hand.

Umbridge ignored her.

Well, two could play that game. Hermione kept her hand up, despite rapidly growing numb, for several minutes, pointedly ignoring the book and waiting her out. When more than half the class were watching her instead of reading, Umbridge finally conceded defeat—in the most condescending manner possible.

 _“Did you want to ask something about the chapter, dear?”_ she asked.

_“Not about the chapter, no,” said Hermione._

_“Well, we’re reading just now,” said Professor Umbridge, showing her small, pointed teeth. “If you have other queries, we can deal with them at the end of class.”_

“I’ve got a query about the course syllabus,” Hermione said before the woman could go back to ignoring her.

Umbridge raised her eyebrows in mock surprise—or perhaps a little actual surprise. She probably expected a more direct protest, but Hermione was already putting her Slytherin subtlety to good use. “And your name is—” Umbridge asked.

“Hermione Granger, Professor.” No need to be impolite just yet. Although she did wonder why Umbridge hadn’t bothered to call the roll, regardless of whether she knew Hermione by reputation.

_“Well, Miss Granger, I think the course aims are perfectly clear if you read them through carefully.”_

Really, what did she think she was accomplishing? Even normal sixteen-year-olds didn’t like being talked down to like that, let alone Hermione Granger. “I understand the aims you’ve written, ma’am,” Hermione said. “I’m just concerned that they seem narrow. I would have thought that a major aim of a Defence Against the Dark Arts course would be attaining practical proficiency with defensive spells.”

Umbridge unsettlingly _smiled_ widely. “An understandable misconception, Miss Granger, considering that you have been exposed to some very irresponsible wizards in this class, not to mention extremely dangerous half breeds.”

“If you mean Professor Lupin—” Dean Thomas started.

“Students will raise their hands before speaking!” Umbridge cut him off. “Your name, Mister—?”

“Dean Thomas. And Professor Lupin was the best Defence teacher we ever had!”

“As I was saying, your education has been managed in a fragmented, irresponsible, and dangerous manner, leaving you with serious misconceptions. It is the view of the Ministry that a purely theoretical instruction in defensive magic is all that you will need to pass the examination—”

“You mean we’re not going to use magic?!” Ron jumped in.

“Ron!” Hermione hissed. She was trying to stay in control of the discussion, but he didn’t hear because at the same time, Umbridge yelled, “Your hand is not up, Mister—”

“Weasley,” he said thrusting his hand into the air.

Umbridge ignored that and continued: _“You will be learning about defensive spells in a secure, risk-free way—”_

“Risk-free?!” Harry yelled.

“Harry!”

“ _Hand,_ Mr. Potter!” Of course, Umbridge knew _his_ name.

By now, Harry, Ron, Hermione, and a few others all had their hands raised, but she ignored them. Umbridge clearly didn’t like class discussion. It let people _think_ too much. She finally called on Parvati and asked her name, perhaps noticing her prefect badge.

“Professor, if we’re going to be attacked, shouldn’t we have practice so we can be sure our spells will work?” she asked.

“Are you expecting to be attacked in class, Miss Patil?”

“No, but—”

But Hermione was seized by a sudden inspiration and called out, “Maybe we are.”

“Hand—!” Umbridge said, but she stopped, apparently surprised by that answer. “And what _ever_ do you mean, Miss Granger.”

Hermione mirrored her broad smile and said, “It’s public record that I have been personally attacked multiple times in this school, including twice by your predecessors in this post and once by the dementors that Minister Fudge placed around the grounds. It’s why I transferred to Beauxbatons in the first place. I think we have good evidence that this school isn’t perfectly safe…Ma’am,” she added as an afterthought.

“Well, there are no dementors here now, and the Ministry would never condone a teacher attacking a student,” she replied, her voice turning hard and losing her false sweetness. “With _appropriate_ management, no one will want to attack children like you here.”

“Oh, really?” Harry cut in. “What about _Lord Voldemort_.”

That certainly got a reaction. Ron flinched. Lavender screamed. Neville actually fell out of his seat. But to Hermione’s surprise, Umbridge didn’t flinch. If she was afraid of the name, she didn’t show it, though she took ten points from Gryffindor on the spot.

“Let me make one thing perfectly clear,” she said coldly. “You have been informed that a certain dark wizard has returned _. This is a lie_.”

_“It is NOT A LIE!” said Harry. “I saw him, I fought him!”_

_“Detention, Mr. Potter! Tomorrow evening, five o’clock. My office. I repeat,_ this is a lie _—_ _”_

“So Cedric just cut his _own_ arm and leg off?” Harry demanded.

“Cedric Diggory was viciously attacked by the escaped Death Eater, Barty Crouch Jr, who is the original perpetrator of this little conspiracy, which _certain interests_ have exploited to their own ends,” Umbridge insisted. “Crouch is acting _alone_ and is clearly deranged. In any case, he cannot enter the castle and will soon be apprehended by _Ministry-licensed_ Aurors. As such, there is no cause for concern—”

“Except he brought Voldemort back, and you know it. _That_ _’s_ cause for concern!”

Everyone was silent for a moment, but then, Umbridge’s voice came back, even more girlish than usual, which seemed even more foreboding than when she was cold and angry: “Come here, Mr. Potter, dear.”

She sent Harry to Professor McGonagall with a note. Hermione had _never_ seen that happen at Hogwarts except once during the Chamber of Secrets debacle. Hermione later learnt that Harry was given a whole week’s detention, including during Quidditch tryouts on Friday. Professor McGonagall gave him two biscuits for calling Umbridge a liar, so it wasn’t a total loss—only ninety percent of one.

“I’m not sure that was quite accurate, Harry,” Hermione told him at dinner. “I think it’s more likely Umbridge actually believes her own rhetoric.”

“Do I look like I care, Hermione?”

To be fair, it didn’t much matter whether the woman believed it or not. The effect was the same. “You shouldn’t have lost your temper like that,” she said.

“She deserved it.”

“Yes, she did, but she has power, and right now, you don’t. And after your trial, she’ll be looking for any way to get rid of you.”

“So? Dumbledore would never—”

“She’s trying to get rid of Dumbledore, too. Do you really think he’d let her ruin the class like that if he could stop her? You really need to pay more attention to the _Prophet_.”

“I’m not gonna waste my time with that bloody rag!”

“Harry, I’m trying to help you—”

“Oi, lay off him, Hermione,” Ron cut in. “He’s already got enough trouble with the detention. He’ll be lucky if Angelina doesn’t kill him for missing tryouts.”

Harry groaned and dropped his forehead to the table.

Hermione sighed. Clearly, it would take a little more time before they realised how dangerous that woman was. “Oh, fine,” she said, “but I’ll have you know I had Umbridge right where I wanted her before you two interrupted.”

“Yeah? What were you gonna do? Take her down with Arithmancy?”

“No.” _Not a completely crazy idea, though._ “I was simply going to question why the standards for Defence don’t include practical spells when they do for Charms and Transfiguration.”

“Don’t do that!” Ron gasped in horror. “She’ll just wreck those classes, too.”

“Well…well, that’s when I use the Arithmancy. Show that those two classes have some of the best O.W.L. scores. Even if she doesn’t listen to that, other people will.”

“Well, maybe.”

The trio returned to the Common Room, and Crookshanks immediately monopolised Hermione’s lap. She stroked his fur as he curled up contentedly. She didn’t think her ginger cat was especially impressed with all the work she’d done over the summer whilst ignoring him, so he was coming back to her with a vengeance. She let him lie there for a few minutes while they complained about Umbridge, classes in general, and Snape’s homework.

However, Hermione became rather distracted when George and Fred and Lee Jordan came into the Common Room and started handing out sweets to the first years. That was too much for her. “Ron, you need to do something about your brothers,” she said.

Ron looked over at the first years who were chewing on some sweets that had come out of a suspicious-looking paper bag. “What makes you think I can control them?” he said. “Besides, George is _your_ boyfriend—God, that still sounds weird,” he muttered to himself.

“But _you_ _’re_ a prefect, Ron,” she replied. “It’s your official responsibility. Do you even know what they’re giving them?”

“Fainting Fancies,” Harry said.

“What?”

“They’re Fainting Fancies.”

“How do you know?”

Harry pointed. One by one, the first years wobbled and dropped to the floor.

“That’s it!” Hermione stood and stalked over to the older boys. “That’s enough, you three.”

“Yes, I’d say this dosage looks strong enough,” George said.

“George!” she chided. “I told you this morning you can’t experiment on the first years.”

“We’re paying them!” Fred cut in.

“That doesn’t matter. Will you pay extra if something goes wrong with your potions?”

“Nothing’s gonna do wrong,” Lee insisted, not looking worried at all. He popped a purple sweet into each of the unconscious first-years’ mouths. “They’ll come around pretty quick.” Indeed, the children started to blink awake at once.

“Yeah, we did good work,” George agreed. “This was a tricky one. We had to make the antidote quick-dissolving so someone could give it to them while they’re out.”

“Yep. Melts in your mouth, not in your hand,” Fred said cheerily. “Say, maybe we should put that on the wrapper.”

“You’d be ripping it off of M&Ms,” Hermione said flatly. “And anyway, how do you _know_ it’s safe.”

“Well, we tested everything on ourselves first,” George reminded her cheerily. “We’re always careful about that.”

Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. It seemed as if her boyfriend really was that clueless. “Oh really,” she answered acerbically. “And did check your recipes against the reaction tables to make sure there were no bad reactions with other common potions?”

“Sure we did,” Fred and Lee said at once. She was a little surprised by that. That was more of a NEWT-level topic.

“Did you check if they contain common allergens?”

“Yes.”

“Did you check the ingredients in your _antidotes_?”

“Umm…” Fred and Lee both droned, suddenly looking worried.

“Exactly. You need to think about things like that. Did you check what happens if someone takes just the antidote without the thing it’s supposed to cure? Or fails to take the antidote at all? Or takes too much of it? Or takes the wrong antidote, for that matter? All those sweets look alike to me.”

“Okay, this is a little more complicated than I thought,” George said with wide eyes.

Hermione turned back to him: “You think? And I don’t appreciate you using yourself as a guinea pig, either. If you must invent new potions, you should start with animal tests.” Honestly, she knew they wouldn’t know anything about the Medicines Control Agency’s standards for clinical trials, but she thought a boy like George would at least have _some_ common sense.

“Oi, we did some,” Fred protested.

“You did?”

“Yeah,” George said. “Well, sort of. We tested what we could on garden gnomes at home before we moved to—” He coughed as the Fidelius Charm tied his tongue. “—well, you know where. We didn’t take anything that would’ve killed them.”

Hermione rolled her eyes: “Yes, because dying is the only bad thing that could happen.”

Lee glared at her in annoyance: “Alright, Miss Smartypants, how would _you_ test something like this?”

“Oi, only I’m allowed to call Hermione Miss Smartypants,” George protested, followed by an “Ow!” as Hermione smacked him in the back of the head.

“This is the benefit to dating a dentists’ daughter, George,” she said primly. “I actually know how these things are done. In the muggle world, new drugs—muggle healing potions—are rigorously tested in multiple rounds of carefully-controlled experiments. You start with direct exposure to blood samples and animal tests to accurately establish effective doses and toxicity levels before they’re ever given to a human being. _Then_ , you give them to a small number of healthy people—usually _adults_ —with round-the-clock monitoring in case something bad happens—in tiny doses starting at a tenth the intended dose or less, and gradually increasing to find out what the safe dosage is for humans. And you do it at different times of the day, to see if anything changes if they’re taken in the morning or evening, or with or without food. Only then do you even _think_ about giving them to patients as an actual cure.”

“Bloody hell, we don’t have time for all that!” Fred exclaimed.

“Well, you have _some_ advantages,” she conceded. “It looks like you’ve done most of the legwork with safety thanks to your idiotic methods, and the magical world is so tiny, the standards are lower, but still, you can’t be experimenting on the first years.”

“Merlin’s beard, take it easy, Hermione,” Fred replied. “We’re just trying to make sure the dosage is right so it lasts the right amount of time and gives just the right symptoms.”

“Then do it properly,” she said. “If you want to experiment with these sweets, you need to start with the _seventh_ -years. People who are of age.”

“Seventh-years want more money,” George interrupted.

She sighed: “If money is a problem, ask for them to help you test them in exchange for early access to the Skiving Snackboxes. You’re the ones who keep saying people will want them right away.”

“I thought you didn’t even approve of the Skiving Snackboxes,” he said smugly.

“I don’t, but I care more about safety. If you won’t stop with them, I can at least make sure no one gets hurt. Test all those things I mentioned about wrong dosages and wrong antidotes and time of day and such to make sure you’ve got all the kinks worked out and _then_ try them on the younger students.”

Fred just shook his head at her: “Hermione, which of us have been in this business longer?”

“You have, but—”

“Then trust us that we understand the business better than you do. You may be brilliant, but we have the street smarts.”

“But that’s not the point—”

“We don’t have the time to run all those tests you want. We have to start somewhere—”

“Actually, I think she kinda has a point,” George interrupted his twin.

Fred and Lee both gasped loudly—and not a fake gasp that they would make as a joke sometimes. This was a real one. They were actually shocked at George’s words. Hermione suspected that wasn’t a good sign.

“George…you know we’re already backordered on the Snackboxes,” Fred said worriedly. “We can’t afford to miss a delivery when we’re just getting off the ground.”

“So offer the experimental batch to the people who’ve ordered already,” George said. “Starting with the seventh-years,” he added to Hermione.

“Have you gone barmy, George?” Fred said. “We can’t give an unfinished product to paying customers. Think of our reputation.”

“It could work,” Hermione said. “Tell them its an early batch and give them a discount in exchange for detailed notes on how it works for them. Muggles call that beta testing.” They normally used it for computer programs, but whatever.

“It doesn’t work like that, Hermione. People are buying this stuff to get out of class. They’re gonna want to make sure it’s reliable.”

“We could at least try it,” George protested.

“I’m not gonna take chances like that with our business, Georgie.”

“You always take chances!”

“Not with this. Besides, you designed the potions. You know they work right.”

“Yeah, if they’re used correctly. What if something goes wrong, like Hermione said? It’ll be just as bad if we put a little firstie in the hospital. You’re still taking chances, like always, just on something different.”

“What is this, bro? You’ve never been like this before,” Fred asked.

“I think Hermione’s been a bad influence on him,” Lee jumped in.

“Excuse me?” Hermione said indignantly.

George glared at his two partners. “Hermione’s been known to have a good idea or two from time to time,” he said without a hint of humour. “Including all last month.”

“Yes, but she’s also one to play it safe—switching schools and all after third year—”

“Oh, you did _not_ just go there,” she said.

“Hey, I’m just saying you can’t start a business without taking a few risks.”

“Risking a lawsuit doesn’t sound like the kind of risk to be taking to me.”

“Well, that’s why you’re a swotty arithmancer, and we’re—”

But they didn’t get to hear what Fred thought they were because George stepped in directly in front of him and said, “Oi, Fred, lay off Hermione. She’s just trying to help. _And_ I happen to like her idea.”

“Well, I don’t. And I never thought you’d side with her over your own twin.”

“Oh, really? And what if Angelina told _you_ to cut it out.”

“But she hasn’t,” Fred snapped, conspicuously ignoring the question. “So how about you do this _your_ way, and I’ll do it mine, huh?”

George glared at him silently for a long time. Lee looked too afraid to step into the argument again.

“Or are you gonna try and stop me?” Fred pushed his twin.

“Fine. Deal,” George grumbled. “We’ll see whose idea is better.” He turned and stomped away.

Hermione watched him go with wide eyes. She’d never seen the twins like this before. Merlin’s pants, they were actually _fighting_. She turned back to Fred and Lee, and opened and closed her mouth a couple times. Somehow, she felt a little too guilty to actually tell them off. Instead, she just mumbled, “We might not try to stop you, but Parvati might,” before hurrying after her boyfriend.

“Sorry you had to see that, Hermione,” George muttered sulkily when she caught up with him.

“ _You_ _’re_ sorry?” she said in surprise. “ _I_ _’m_ the one who should be sorry. I never meant to start a fight between you two. I just wanted to make sure you were being responsible.”

“It’s alright,” he said, though he didn’t really sound like it. “Fred’ll come around. You’re right, too, he does need a kick in the pants once in a while. Always has, even when we were little. I remember when we were eight, Fred roped me into trying to get Ron to take an Unbreakable Vow to be our slave. We wouldn’t’ve actually been able to do the spell, of course, but it was still the only time Dad ever spanked us instead of Mum. And when he figured out whose idea it was, he made sure Fred got the worst of it and then gave me a good, long talking to about keeping him in line because somebody had to do it. He’s always been like that. We just don’t like to show it in public.”

“Wow…” was all Hermione could think to say.

“Yeah, that’s what everybody says when we tell them…You didn’t have any idea, did you?”

“I had some, but I didn’t realise it was like that…You’re sure you’re alright?”

“Yeah, I am. Come here.”

George’s kiss _did_ made it pretty convincing.

* * *

“Hey, Hermione, what’s up with Fred and George?” Ron said at breakfast the next morning. “They’re not talking to each other. I have seen them like that since…I don’t even know when.”

“They do that once in a while,” Ginny said, “but it’s usually a part of a prank. They actually look mad today.”

“Oh, that,” Hermione groaned. “We had a disagreement about how they should do their potions testing.”

“And by “we,” you mean…” Ginny said shrewdly.

“George and me against Fred and Lee. We were trying to get them to be a little more careful not to hurt anyone with their testing, and they weren’t having it.”

“Wow, I didn’t think even you could split _them_ up,” Ron said. Hermione wasn’t sure whether he looked amused or angry. “What’ve you been doing to George to pull that off?”

“Ronald!” Ginny hissed as Hermione gave him a scandalised look.

“What?”

“Do you _ever_ think before you open your pie-hole?”

“What?” he protested.

“Never mind. You don’t think it’s serious, do you, Hermione?” she asked worriedly.

“No. Or at least I hope not. It should be sorted by the end of the week, if all goes well.”

“I hope it does, then.”

“On the bright side, no Snape today,” Harry said, trying to sound cheerful and failing. Angelina had already chewed him out over the detentions today.

“Ugh, speak for yourself,” Ginny groaned. “Fourth year Gryffindor-Slytherin at nine o’clock.”

The fifth years’ day wasn’t too bad. Charms featured a review of Summoning Charms, while in the Transfiguration class that followed, Professor McGonagall started a new unit on Vanishing Spells.

“It is too simplistic,” she said, “to say that vanished objects cease to exist. As a practical matter, this is true enough, but you cannot master the spell by thinking of it in those terms. Alternatively, a philosopher might say that vanished objects go into non-being, which is to say, everything. A poetic statement that delves into the deep meaning behind vanishing and other related branches of magic. And if you continue to N.E.W.T.-level transfiguration, we will explore it more thoroughly.

“However, to pass your O.W.L., you will need to understand the magical theory of Vanishing Spells, and this is easiest to understand as the inverse of Conjuring Spells—even though Vanishing Spells can be used on non-conjured objects. Conjuration is also a N.E.W.T. topic, but briefly, it is a transfiguration of something from the null element—nothing. Arithmancy students, this will be familiar to you: Conjuration is the special case of a transfiguration spell where the left side of the equation is zero, rather than a particular antecedent that leads to a particular solution. Vanishing is the inverse spell, which unmakes the conjured object and disperses the magic in it into the environment. Hence, we say it goes into “everything.”

“Gamp’s Law still applies to Conjuration, with one notable limitation: Some transfiguration is permanent and some is not. However, Conjuration is _never_ permanent. A conjured object is always a magical construct rather than the real thing. If it is a simple, inanimate object like a chair, it may serve as well as the real thing, but it will not last. However, Gamp’s Law does _not_ apply to Vanishing. Vanishing has its own, different set of limitations, thanks to its ability to disperse magic. Vanishing is a quick and easy way of getting rid of a conjured object, and it can also be used to get rid of small, unimportant real objects such as bits of rubbish, even if that rubbish includes food, cloth, or potions that cannot be transfigured. However, nothing of great value can be vanished, nor can any true living animal.”

That seemed odd to Hermione. Not _any_ living animal? Some animals were nearly microscopic. If you vanished a ratty old pillow, would it leave the thousands of dust mites living in it behind? Would the average wizard even notice? She made a note to investigate that more closely—if she could ever find the time.

Professor McGonagall taught them the first vanishing spell they would need to know and set the exercise for the day. They would be vanishing small, conjured snails, of which she had prepared a bucket-full.

That also surprised Hermione, so she questioned Professor McGonagall directly on that one: “Why are we practising vanishing on conjured animals when the more practical use of the spell would be to vanish bits of rubbish and such?”

“Excellent question, Miss Granger,” McGonagall answered. “It is because you should learn the most general form of the spell first—and the general form is the inverse of the Free Conjuration Spell. Moreover, just as we begin learning untransfiguration spells early, it is essential to be proficient in Vanishing before attempting Conjuring, including being able to vanish the conjured animals we will often work with. Conjuring is purely intent-based magic and so can easily go wrong—much more easily than with ordinary transfiguration—with unexpected and disturbing results.”

That sorted things nicely, and Hermione found she did pretty well with Vanishing Spells, successfully vanishing her snail on the third try, earning ten points for Gryffindor.

“Oh, I’ve missed saying that to you, Miss Granger,” Professor McGonagall said. She even exempted Hermione from the homework after that performance.

In Care of Magical Creatures, Professor Grubbly-Plank started them off with bowtruckles. There was no news on Hagrid, although Malfoy smirked at them and implied he knew something. Anyway, Hermione thought Professor Grubbly-Plank was a better teacher, although she couldn’t say that in front of Harry and Ron. After that, Professor Sprout had them all spreading dragon dung in Herbology, which was unpleasant, but not as much as certain teachers she could name.

At that point, after a long day, Harry had his first detention with “Professor” Umbridge. Hermione waved him off with a simple “Good luck, Harry. See you at dinner,” but he never came to dinner. When she looked up at the High Table, she noticed that Umbridge was absent as well. Even as the meal drew to a close, neither of them appeared. Hermione assumed Umbridge was keeping him through dinner and was planning to raid the kitchens for herself afterwards, and so, Hermione made a sandwich for him to eat when he got back, wrapped it in a napkin, and set it by the fire in the Gryffindor Common Room while she did her homework and waited for him to return.

By ten o’clock, Harry still didn’t show, and she was starting to get worried. What if Umbridge had tried another ploy to get him expelled or otherwise removed from school? She discretely pulled out her Mathemagician’s Map and searched for Harry. He was still there. His and Umbridge’s names were still sitting motionless in the woman’s office. She bit her lip with worry. What would happen if he was caught out after curfew? She has a nasty feeling Umbridge would toss him out to fend for himself with no note, even though that was probably against the rules. The last thing Harry needed was to get yet another detention from Filch.

By midnight, Harry and Umbridge were _still_ in the Defence Professor’s office. Hermione was appalled. What was Umbridge playing at? There had to be rules against detention running this long or taking this much of a student’s time. She’d have to check the student handbook the next time she was in the library. If Harry got a detention from _Snape_ because he didn’t have time to do his homework…

“Hermione, aren’t you coming to bed?” Parvati said wearily, interrupting her thoughts. Ron and pretty much everyone else had already gone to bed—even Crookshanks.

“I’m waiting up for Harry,” Hermione said, equally wearily. The sandwich sat cold and nearly forgotten on the side table.

“Oh? Where is he?”

“Still in detention.”

“This late? It can’t be. No detentions run this late. He’s probably just avoiding you for some reason.”

“No, I know—” Hermione stopped herself. “I think I know him better than that.”

“I don’t know. I still believe him, mind you, but he seems…troubled this year. He could be hiding things from you.”

“I’m pretty sure this isn’t one of them.”

“Well…if you say so. But remember, you told me and Lav to make sure you always go to bed at a decent hour. You know how you get when you don’t get enough sleep.”

“I know, Parv,” she said with a sigh. She’d run herself into the ground more than once with that problem. “This is one of the exceptions, though. I want to make sure Harry’s alright.”

“Hmm…” Parvati pressed her lips together, trying to look stern. She was filling her prefect’s role admirably. “Alright, then, but I really hope you’re right about him.”

“I know I am, Parv. And thanks.”

When Harry finally got back to the dorm, it was one o’clock in the morning, the Common Room was long since empty, and he looked like something Crookshanks had dragged in.

“Harry! Finally!” Hermione exclaimed jumping up to meet him.

“Hermione?” he said in confusion. “What—?”

“I was worried when you didn’t come to dinner. And I knew it was your detention because Umbridge didn’t show up either. And then it just went on and on, and I wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

“Oh…I’m fine,” he said flatly.

Hermione wasn’t convinced, but she let it go for now. “What did she have you doing all night?”

“Lines.”

“For eight hours?” She did the maths. That had to have been at least a thousand lines. Maybe two thousand.

“Yeah. You know she hates me.”

“Yes, but still…I saved you a sandwich from dinner.”

“Not hungry.” He started up the stairs.

“But you missed it completely—”

“Not hungry, Hermione. I need to get some sleep.” And he climbed out of sight, leaving her once again wondering what she was missing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I must not tell JK Rowling.
> 
> I’ve been getting a lot of comments, so I want to say up front that it will not be easy to unseat Umbridge. With Fudge’s help, she has enough power to withstand anything our heroes can throw at her short of Voldemort being exposed. It will be a hard fight for Hermione and friends, and patience will be required.

Harry didn’t show up to breakfast the next morning, nor did he come to History of Magic. He finally appeared in Potions, where he looked harried and rushed and barely even tried to make a passable potion.

“What happened to him?” Ginny asked Hermione at lunch. “He looks awful, and he’s barely talking to me.”

“His detention ran late last night,” Hermione said quietly. “He didn’t come back till one o’clock.”

“How do you know?” Ron said.

“Because I waited up for him. Umbridge had him doing lines for eight hours straight.”

“Blimey, and I thought _I_ had it bad,” Ron muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

“You look pretty tired, too, Hermione,” Ginny said. “You don’t have to wait up for him again. I can do it tonight.”

“Really, Ginny?”

“Sure. You should get some sleep. And if Umbridge is _that_ bad, I think we’ll need to take it in shifts.”

Harry still wasn’t speaking to them as he picked at the food on his plate, but he certainly had something to say when Angelina tracked him down.

“Harry,” the Quidditch captain said, looking stern, “where were you last night? You never came back.”

Harry visibly gritted his teeth and took a deep breath. “Detention ran late,” he said without looking up.

“So did you get her to move your Friday detention for tryouts?”

Harry glanced at her with a positively withering look: “What do you think?”

“I _told_ you I want you there—”

“THEN ASK HER YOURSELF!” With a clatter of plates, Harry shoved his breakfast away and stood up. He came nose to nose with her, his fists clenched, white-knuckled at his sides. For a moment, Hermione was genuinely afraid he might hit Angelina in front of everybody. She’d never seen such bottled-up anger from her friend. “Ask her your bloody self,” he hissed, “and you’d better _pray_ that she doesn’t give you detention just for asking because I wouldn’t put it past her.” And with that, he pushed past her and left the Great Hall, leaving his food almost untouched.

“Harry?” Hermione called after him. Angelina looked too stunned to speak. After a moment’s consideration, Hermione got up to follow him, she he was long gone. She had no idea what would have caused him to react that badly.

What had happened last night?

* * *

The next Hermione heard from Harry was in Defence class. He didn’t speak to her himself, but Dean informed her that he hadn’t handed in his Arithmancy homework. Hermione was disappointed, but unsurprised, since he surely hadn’t had time to do it. Septima had docked him ten points for that but thankfully hadn’t given him any more detention. Defence class went much the same as the previous one, except that Harry didn’t challenge Umbridge again, and Hermione didn’t bother raising the issue of the curriculum, either—not quite yet.

Harry, of course, was stuck in detention again that evening, but Hermione had work to do. Several of her side projects had become more pressing this year, and she was just getting started with them. Today on her list, she had Luna and Cedric—though for very different reasons.

Luna she tracked down in the library before dinner. She motioned for the odd girl to follow her, and she led her to the most obscure corner of the library, sitting at the last table.

“Hello, Luna. How’s your year starting off?” she asked.

“It’s been quiet so far,” Luna said. “It’s like everyone is waiting for something to happen, but they don’t know what.”

“Probably for Umbridge to make a move,” Hermione said darkly. “She’s an unknown quantity—more so than usual. And she definitely doesn’t like Dumbledore.”

“Yes, that’s true. Things could get very messy here, especially if the Rotfang Conspiracy gets involved.”

“Um…if you say so. But I was hoping you could help me with something. I need someone with your unique expertise.”

“Oh? Are you going snorkack hunting?”

“No,” Hermione said. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. “I meant your knowledge of arcane lore—Well, first I need to ask, you believe Professor Dumbledore and Harry about Voldemort being back, right?”

“Of course, Hermione.”

“Good. But have you asked yourself why Voldemort hasn’t acted openly yet?”

Luna tilted her head in thought. “Hmm…that does seem odd. I suppose the most logical answer is that he isn’t ready yet.”

Wow. That was surprisingly coherent for Luna. “Well, other people think that too,” Hermione agreed. “And the thing is, I heard a rumour—just a rumour, mind you—that Voldemort is looking for some kind of magical weapon—something he didn’t have before that could give him a leg up on the Ministry this time. I’m trying to research what kinds of magical weapons might be out there that he might be looking for. If I can piece together the clues maybe it will help the war effort. I may not be able to find anything, but I want to do something.”

“That’s very noble of you, Hermione. Not many people would try to take action like that at our age.”

“Well, I’m just doing what I can. But I wanted to ask you because you know a lot of obscure magical legends and stuff like that. Can you think of any magical weapons that Voldemort might be looking for?”

“Hmm…” Luna said again. “It’s a very interesting puzzle. I haven’t thought much about that sort of thing. Of course, there’s always the Deathly Hallows.”

“The Deathly Hallows?” Hermione said. “Okay, I know this one…I think…” But as she wracked her brain, she couldn’t place where she’d heard of them before.

“ _The Tale of the Three Brothers_?” Luna reminded her.

“ _The Tale of the Three Brothers?_ Oh, of course. I remember.” She scribbled down some notes. “We came across that story when we were researching the Philosopher’s Stone in first year. Let’s see, there was a wand that’s unbeatable in a head-on duel, a stone that lets you communicate with the dead, and a…an invisibility cloak—but those are all over—Wait, the Deathly Hallows are real?”

“Of course. The Elder Wand is well-documented. There’s a long chain of wizards who held a seemingly-unbeatable wand that was always passed down by backstabbing and subterfuge. Of course, there are far fewer clues to the Stone and the Cloak.”

“Do you think Voldemort could get hold of the Elder Wand?”

Luna shrugged: “Anything is possible. But it would be very difficult. The thread was lost in the eighteenth century. And anyway, that seems like a very Gryffindor way of thinking, doesn’t it?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, You-Know-Who was a Slytherin, wasn’t he? It would be a Gryffindor who would be the sort to seek out a very powerful weapon. A Ravenclaw would seek a source of lost lore, like Ravenclaw’s Lost Diadem, or a powerful spellbook that isn’t in the Hogwarts library. A Hufflepuff would seek powerful friends and allies.”

“And a Slytherin would want a way to accomplish his goals by secrecy and intrigue,” Hermione finished thought. “It’s an interesting idea—although a _really_ smart dark lord would go for all four.”

“Yes, I suppose he would. It’s a thorny question.”

“Are there any legendary lost spellbooks that he might be looking for, or any other artifacts you think he could make a serious effort to acquire within—I don’t know, a year or two?”

“Now _that_ narrows it down,” Luna said with a smile. “You’re starting to think like a lore-seeker. There are quite a few artifacts of Merlin and Morgana—and Circe, for that matter—that are held with a special reverence, but the true experts believe few if any of them hold real special powers.”

Hermione knew enough to take anything Luna said about “experts” with a large pinch of salt, and she made a notation in her notes to that effect, but she let the girl continue.

“On the other hand, the Founders of Hogwarts all had special artifacts of their own.”

“Gryffindor’s sword,” Hermione said.

“Yes, and I believe Slytherin had a locket, and Hufflepuff had a small goblet, but no one agrees on what they were supposed to do.”

“Really? Then I think we can put Slytherin’s locket high on the list. Professor Dumbledore says Voldemort was the Heir of Slytherin, so he probably knows things about it that the rest of us don’t.”

“That makes sense,” Luna agreed. “If You-Know-Who doesn’t have the locket already, he would probably want it.”

“Mm hmm. Say, Luna, people talk about Merlin and Morgana all the time in the magical world. Are the artifacts from Arthurian legend real, like Excalibur and the Holy Grail?”

To Hermione’s surprise, Luna gave her a confused look and said, “I’m not sure I understand.”

“What do you mean?” She’d managed to confuse Luna Lovegood? That be a first.

“Well, Excalibur is certainly real, and there must have been a cup that Jesus drank from at the Last Supper, but the Holy Grail is a French story.”

“It is?”

“Yes. Didn’t you know that?”

“No, I only know the muggle stories…I’m sure Professor Binns must have covered it at some point, but…”

“He’s rather difficult to follow, isn’t he? It’s alright, though. Dad taught me the history of the Arthurian legends. It really comes down to Merlin. The real wizard Merlin was born Myrddin Emrys in the late tenth century. He was named for the sixth-century Welsh Seer Myrddin the Wild and the fifth-century Roman tribune Ambrosius Aurelianus. He was a member of Salazar Slytherin’s inaugural class at Hogwarts, and after his death, his own story was conflated with those of his namesakes, and the muggle stories began to cast him as his sixth-century predecessor. The real King Arthur was a Welsh muggle nobleman who was Merlin’s partner, and together, they united all of the wizards of the British Isles and Scandinavia and several major chivalric orders under a single council.”

“The Round Table?” Hermione asked, feeling overwhelmed.

“Exactly,” Luna said brightly. “You should read the wizard story some time. It’s very good. Unfortunately, the Round Table was disbanded and replaced by William of Normandy’s and Armand Malfoy’s Wizard’s Council in 1067. When the muggle stories moved Merlin to the sixth century, they moved King Arthur with him, but his legends were mostly invented out of whole cloth.”

And Luna Lovegood had just called something made up. This day was turning surreal. “And Excalibur?” she ventured.

“A goblin-made sword probably made by the same smith as Gryffindor’s Sword. Most lore-seekers believe it’s been in a vault under Gringotts since Arthur died.”

“And the Holy Grail?”

“Well, there must have been one, but it was probably just an ordinary cup. I doubt anyone would have saved it after the Last Supper. Jesus’ disciples were a little preoccupied, after all. It was only the medieval French writers who said it had special powers. But King Arthur _did_ put out a search for the cauldron of Bran the Blessed, which really did have healing powers.”

“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” Hermione said, and added the cauldron to her list. “What about the Lance of Longinus?”

“Probably just an ordinary spear unless you belong to a church that believes in the power of holy relics.”

Luna had such a simple matter-of-fact way of putting such things that it ironically left Hermione’s head spinning. But after a little more questioning, she had a list of things that Voldemort might want, organised by how useful they were likely to be and how likely they were to be obtainable. Now, perhaps, some careful questioning of the Order of the Phoenix could tease out some clues about which, if any of them, they were worried about. And maybe some of them could even be useful to the light side, too. She thanked Luna and asked her not to spread their conversation around before going on to dinner.

Hermione found Cedric patrolling the halls shortly before curfew. This one was a social call. She hadn’t seen much of Cedric since she moved to Headquarters over the summer, and she wanted to see how he was doing.

“So how’s Head Boy treating you, Cedric?” she called, waving when she saw him.

“A lot of work,” he answered. “Evening, Hermione. Honestly, I considered turning it down because I’m so busy trying to catch up in my classes. I know won’t be finishing first in my year anymore.”

“I’m sure you’ll do brilliantly for someone who’s working with one hand tied behind his back—almost literally.”

“Heh. Rebecca’s gonna wipe the floor with me, though. It’s all I can do to keep up in Charms and Transfiguration.”

“I could give you some more pointers if you want,” Hermione offered.

“Thanks, but I just need more practice. It’s awfully slow going,” Cedric said ruefully. “Did you know there are countries where they punish murderers by cutting their hands off so they can never use a wand again?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. Cedric never used to be this morbid. “No, I didn’t,” she said. “Might still be more humane than Azkaban, though,” she added after a moment’s thought.

He shrugged at that. “Anyway, don’t mind me.”

She wasn’t about to let that go. “Cedric, you really shouldn’t be so negative. Are you doing alright?” she asked.

“I’m getting by as well as I can. Not too much else has changed. I can do almost everything I did before. Except the wrist joint on this thing keeps sticking.” He held up his wooden arm.

“Could I take a look?” she asked. He held out his hand to her. Taking it and twisting the wrist gently, she could feel it sticking. It reminded her a little of a stuck key on a computer keyboard. “Did they tell you anything about cleaning it?”

“They said it’s washable; soap and water won’t hurt it. Other than that, it’s supposed to be self-lubricating.”

“That might not keep it perfectly clean, though. And the soap and water might not get into the joint well enough. Did any other liquid get into it? Spilt orange juice, maybe, or something similar?” It certainly felt like there was some sticky substance in there.

“Could’ve been,” Cedric answered.

“Well, if it won’t respond to cleaning charms, you might just need to get the soap in there a little better…” She pulled on the hand experimentally to see if it would separate a bit from the wrist.

“OW!” Cedric yelped. “I can still feel it, you know. It’s enchanted.”

“Sorry,” Hermione said sheepishly, letting go. “But if it’s washable, you might try working the soap in through the gap and giving it a good, long rinse.” Really, that should have been obvious, but she realised people didn’t deal with this sort of mechanical contrivance much in the magical world. “I wish it were that easy with computer keyboards.”

“What?”

“Muggle stuff. Never mind. Anyway, I hope things get easier for you. I can’t imagine what it’s like. And then to have Umbridge and half the school thinking you’ve gone “round the twist…”

Cedric groaned: “Don’t remind me. That woman actually had the nerve to call me delusional in front of the entire N.E.W.T. class, not to mention she doesn’t even try to teach.”

“At least you didn’t get detention. If she pulls a repeat of last night, Harry will be writing lines past midnight.”

“That late?”

“Yeah. It was one o’clock last night. So if you could not dock points if you catch him—”

“No problem. I owe him that much and a lot more. I almost blew up in front of Umbridge myself; it was only because I heard what happened to Harry that I didn’t. I swear, I don’t know if I can take her for a full year.”

“Well, just take it a day at a time. And thanks.”

They walked in an awkward silence for a minute, Hermione not wanting to make Cedric even more uncomfortable, until he changed the subject. “It’s a shame you couldn’t be a prefect, Hermione,” he said. “Parvati’s better than I expected, but I know you’d be brilliant.”

Hermione smiled a little: “Thanks, Cedric. It’s annoying, but…I think part of me is relieved. I have enough to be getting on with as it is. I’m more worried about Harry. He won’t show it, but he took it pretty hard.”

“Yeah. I don’t understand why he didn’t get it, even with the Ministry being against him.”

“Well, I don’t know. And Dumbledore isn’t talking. Just one more screwed up thing this year.”

“Uh huh…So…I see you finally got together with George.”

Hermione broke into a wide grin: “Yes, there’s one good thing about this year. He finally talked me into taking a chance since we’d both be here this autumn. You wouldn’t think it, but he’s actually really sweet in a devil-may-care sort of way.”

Cedric shook off the seeming contradiction. It didn’t surprise him where the Weasley Twins were involved. “Well, I’m happy for you, Hermione,” he said. “You deserve some happiness after all you’ve been through.”

“Honestly, I never got the worst of it. What about you and Cho? Are you doing any better?”

He frowned and sighed disappointedly: “Not really. I try to talk to her, but she’s still uncomfortable around me. Our relationship is kind of in limbo, I think, but I don’t think it’ll last much longer at this rate.”

Hermione suppressed a scowl. That girl didn’t know what she was missing. She needed some sense knocked into her. “Do you want me to talk to her?” she asked.

“What? Really?”

“You deserve happiness too, Cedric. I want to help if I can.”

“You aren’t gonna hex her, are you?”

“No, just talk. You know, girl to girl.” _Well, if she_ really _deserves it,_ she thought, but she didn’t say it. And probably, it wouldn’t come to that.

“Well, alright. And…thanks for helping out.”

“Just trying to be a good friend,” she told him. “I’d better get back to the Tower. I’ll see you later.”

Astronomy Class was Wednesday night at midnight, and Harry didn’t show up there either. Hermione discretely checked her map a couple of times and saw that Harry was once again released from detention sometime around one o’clock, but he went back to the dorm instead of the Astronomy Tower. Professor Sinistra wouldn’t like it, but Hermione could understand why he would feel the need to prioritise. Astronomy was interesting and surprisingly in-depth this year, though. They would be doing a major unit on Jupiter in preparation for the _Galileo_ spacecraft reaching the planet in December. Hermione always appreciated how well-versed Professor Sinistra was in muggle astronomy and space travel.

When the class returned to the dorms, Harry was still up in the Common Room, doing his homework. Ginny appeared to have gone to bed as soon as he returned. The food Hermione had left out hadn’t been touched.

“Harry, I left this out for you,” she said. “You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry,” he grumbled without looking up from his parchment.

“Harry, that can’t be true. You’ve just skipped four meals straight. You don’t want to pass out in Potions or something tomorrow.”

“Fine.” He grabbed a sandwich with one hand and took a bite while he kept writing with the other. “Happy now?”

“Harry, what’s happening in those detentions?”

He slapped his quill down and looked up at her. “Just lines again!” he snapped. “God, Hermione, do you have to stick your nose into everything?”

Hermione was taken aback. This was so unlike him, puberty or no. But she could tell trying to push him more would only backfire. “ _Well_ ,” she huffed, “when you’re ready to talk, you know where to find me.”

Yes, this year was getting off to a _fine_ start.

* * *

Harry did make it to breakfast the next morning, but he looked awful. Hermione knew that look. He looked like she felt when she hadn’t got any sleep. She wouldn’t be surprised if he’d been up the whole night doing homework. She didn’t bother talking to him in more than a perfunctory fashion; she was still in a mood to let him stew and wait for him to come around. He seemed to pass through his classes in a daze, and she let him go his own way when they were over.

Hermione herself made her way to the library. That afternoon, they had just had Magical Creatures class with the Slytherins, so she took a chance about the two of them she was looking for being there rather than in their Common Room. That would be a smart move if they were distancing themselves from the rest of their house—and with the loudest voices in their house coming down on Voldemort’s side in all but name, they had good reason to do so—to stand aloof from it.

Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis were sitting at a table by themselves, pouring over references and working on essays for some class or other. Hermione briefly wondered what would have happened if she _had_ gone to Slytherin this year. These two would almost certainly have been the closest to her, based on what Septima had said, and she probably would have needed their protection against the rest of their house, which could well have led to a very asymmetric deal. Steeling herself, she walked up to their table and said, “Excuse me.”

The two girls looked up. “Can we help you, Granger?” Greengrass said with a trademark Slytherin sneer and a flip of her long, blond hair.

“Greengrass. Davis. What are you working on?”

Both of their eyes narrowed. “What’s it to you?” Greengrass demanded.

“I was just wondering if you two could give me a hand with our Magical Creatures homework.”

Greengrass’s and Davis’s jaws dropped, and they stared at Hermione like she’d grown a second head. Greengrass recovered and closed her mouth first, but she seemed to have trouble finding words. Finally, Davis managed, “If this is a prank—”

“It’s not a prank!”

“Like we’d believe that with that idiot boyfriend of yours,” she shot back.

“I strive to be the responsible one in our relationship,” Hermione said. “And only I’m allowed to call George an idiot.”

“If it’s not a prank,” Greengrass said evenly, “then what could possibly possess you to ask us and not one of your Gryffindork friends.”

“Because most of my friends don’t have a lot of firsthand experience with magical creatures, and Professor Vector recommended you.”

That gave the Slytherin girls some pause. They turned and stared at each other. “Professor Vector…” Greengrass said thoughtfully.

“Not completely mad, then,” Davis said.

“No, but why do you need help at all, Granger?” Greengrass asked her. “You’re supposed to be a super-genius.”

“Only in Arithmancy,” she answered. “In the rest of my subjects, I’m merely gifted. Plus, the fourth-year curriculum at Beauxbatons is a little slower than it is here, and honestly, the teacher wasn’t as good as Professor Grubbly-Plank. I need to catch up.”

By now, Davis looked genuinely intrigued, although her friend still kept her expression neutral. “I have to hand it to you, Granger, that actually does make sense,” Davis said. “Although I would’ve thought you be for Hagrid over Professor Grubbly-Plank.”

Hermione shook her head. She debated for a moment how much to reveal, but she decided that little harm could come of telling her thoughts. “Hagrid’s a good soul,” she said, “and an especially good friend to Harry. But personally, I think he’s in over his head with teaching. Anyway, that’s not the point.”

“No, it’s not,” Greengrass said with a smug tone of knowing exactly what was going on. “Here’s the thing that really doesn’t make sense, though. Even with Professor Vector’s recommendation, you’ve got no reason to associate with Slytherins, and a few good reasons not to. You could have asked any old Ravenclaw and caused a lot less trouble. So is studying _really_ all this is about?”

Hermione had already decided not to hide her true motives, especially after Septima said they’d be suspicious anyway. But of course, she put a good spin on it: “No, it’s not. But I’m not trying anything. It simply strikes me that I barely know any of the Slytherins at all, and this seems like a serious oversight.”

“Ha! Like any of you other Gryffindors ever care about that,” Greengrass said.

“Well, most Gryffindors’ most notable contact with Slytherin is people like Draco Malfoy, and you have to admit, he’s not the best representative of your house.”

“That depends on your point of view,” Davis said.

“And what’s your point of view, Davis? I never see you hanging around with Malfoy’s crowd.”

“I’m only a half-blood. I’m not good enough for him,” she said. “That’s no secret.”

“But we won’t bore you with internal house politics,” Greengrass said, noticeably more as a warning to her friend than to Hermione. “And as for “friends,” I’m thinking this has more to do with the Sorting Hat’s song and how it wants all the houses to be friends. Isn’t that right Granger?”

Wow, she was even quicker than Hermione expected. “I admit that’s on my mind,” she said, “but I’m still not asking you to do anything more. Just studying, no strings attached.”

“No strings attached?” Greengrass said incredulously. “Seriously? I think I can see why you’re a Gryffindor.”

“Would you ever agree to this otherwise?” Hermione countered.

The two girls gave her a curious look, debating the question to themselves. Davis looked a little offended, Hermione thought, but it was hard to tell. “You’re really serious about this, aren’t you, Granger?” Greengrass said.

“Yes, I wouldn’t bother if I weren’t,” she said indignantly.”

“Huh…So…if we help you, will you help us with Arithmancy?”

“I should think that would be obvious.”

That actually made Davis smile. She was no doubt considering the advantage that would give her as a half-blood in Slytherin house. “Alright, Granger, you’ve got a deal.”

Greengrass raised an eyebrow at her friend, but she didn’t protest, and Hermione took a seat at the table

The next hour taught her several important things. One, looking for bowtruckles was a quick shortcut to finding wand-quality wood, which could come in handy someday. Two, both Greengrass and Davis were very serious about pushing ahead in arithmancy. That could be basic Slytherin ambition, or because of some more immediate concern. Three, while Davis was the more personable of the two, Greengrass might be a natural Ravenclaw like herself. She was definitely smart enough. Of course, Hermione didn’t learn much about them personally, and she restrained herself from asking more than trivial questions. She would need to practice patience for this, but it was a start.

* * *

By mutual agreement, Ginny was going to wait up for Harry again so Hermione could get a full night’s sleep. But Hermione was surprised to find that he was sent back to the dorm shortly after dinner ended tonight. She was even more surprised by the way she found out. She had apparently just missed him when she climbed up to her dorm room to get one of her other course books. She was almost there when a loud klaxon sounded, and the stairs beneath her feet turned into a stone slide.

Hermione screamed as she slid down ninety feet of nearly-frictionless slide all the way back down to the Common Room, picking up more and more speed until she shot out of the end so fast that she bowled over four people, and they all landed in a heap.

She groaned and staggered to her feet, checking herself for broken bones. “Alright, whose idea was it for all seven flights of stairs to turn into a slide when the alarm goes off?” she demanded. “That could be really dangerous in the morning when it’s crowded.”

No one had a good answer for that.

“Who tried to come up the stairs, anyway?”

“Erm…I did,” came a soft voice.

Hermione looked and was shocked to see that one of the girls she had knocked down was Ginny, who was looking very red faced and was holding Harry’s hand. How would _she_ make a mistake like that? The other girls who were brushing themselves off were two of Ginny’s roommates, who were giggling at the couple like mad.

“Ginny?” she said, scandalised.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Ginny and Harry said in unison.

“She dragged me up there to find you,” Harry clarified.

“What?!” Hermione yelped.

“Not like that!” Ginny said. “I—Harry—we need to talk to you. _Privately_.” She shot a glare at her roommates, who just giggled all the more.

She dragged Harry and Hermione out of the Common Room and to the nearest empty classroom.

“You know, there’s always the Room of Requirement if you want to—” Hermione started.

“Not now. Just look at this.” Ginny grabbed Harry’s wrist and held out his right hand. Hermione’s eyebrows rose as she noticed some cuts on the back of his hand—cuts in an odd pattern. She turned her head around, and her breath caught as she realised that the cuts spelt words—cut as if with a scalpel and oozing blood.

 

_I must not tell lies._

 

“Oh my God, Harry, _Umbridge_ did this?!”

Harry glared at both of them, but his silence was proof enough.

“You said she only gave you lines!”

“She did. It’s the quill that did this,” he growled.

“What?”

“It cuts the words as you write them and then heals them. But after a while, they don’t heal so well, okay?” He yanked his hand back.

“So… _eight hours_ on Tuesday…” Hermione was almost sick with horror. “Eight hours _again_ yesterday. And then…”

“She let me go early because it stopped healing. Still have to go back tomorrow, though.”

“That bitch! That evil, sadistic…Does Dumbledore know about this?” she demanded.

Harry scoffed at the very idea.

“Does McGonagall know about it?”

He rolled his eyes and shook his head again.

“Harry, you have to _tell_ somebody!” Ginny yelled. “You can’t let her do that to you.”

“No! I’m not letting her know she’s got to me. I won’t give her the satisfaction.”

“Don’t be an idiot!” she snapped.

“I’m not. It’s not like I could do anything.”

“Harry, she’s torturing you!” Hermione said. “That’s illegal as hell. You could get her arrested.”

“No I couldn’t! The Ministry’s on her side, remember? You said it yourself, Hermione. Dumbledore’s powerless…And he doesn’t want to talk to me anyway.”

“He’d want to know—”

“No, Hermione. I’m doing this myself.”

He turned to go, but Ginny stopped him. “Harry. At least talk to Sirius on your mirror,” she said, snaking one arm around him. “He’ll have a better idea of what we can do, legally.”

Harry stared at her, and his face softened, but he still didn’t speak.

“Please, Harry? For me? I can’t stand to see you like this.”

He sighed wearily and said, “I’ll think about it.”

* * *

Harry really had no intention of calling Sirius—at least not about that—but his plans changed on Friday. Sitting in detention writing lines very resentfully for two hours whilst trying to get a distant view of the Quidditch tryouts through the window, the cuts on his hand no longer fully healed from the outset. At first, they almost healed up, leaving scrapes barely deep enough to draw blood. But he could feel the quill cutting deeper into his flesh with every repetition of _“I must not tell lies.”_ Maybe if he cut all the way through the tendons of his hand, he wouldn’t be able to write anymore, and Umbridge would have to let him off. But tonight was his last detention anyway, so it didn’t matter.

What changed things, though was when Umbridge inspected his hand to let him go. When she touched him, his scar burned, and he felt a strange, incongruous feeling in his gut. That was enough to make him want to talk to Sirius.

Now, Harry was sitting with his hand soaking in a bowl of essence of murtlap, holding his communication mirror with his other hand so that Sirius couldn’t see it. Hermione had made a discreet enquiry with Madam Pomfrey that morning, not mentioning his name, and had successfully procured a potion to help heal his cuts. Since they were magically-induced, they wouldn’t go easily.

Unfortunately, when he called Sirius’s mirror, Kreacher answered it.

“Blood traitor master’s godson calls?” the elf mumbled back at him. “What does the half-blood mutt want?”

“Kreacher? Where’s Sirius?”

“Master is off with the half-breed scum, howling at the moon and causing all manner of mischief to disgrace his family.”

“The moon? Oh, right. I forgot it was full moon tonight.”

“Should Kreacher take message for master?”

“No, just tell him I’ll call tomorrow.”

There was always something, wasn’t there?


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All Harry Potters are equal, but some Harry Potters are more JK Rowling than others.
> 
> JK Rowling says that Astoria Greengrass was a pureblood true believer, but not a Death Eater. I have more issues with JKR’s portrayal of Slytherins than I have space to write here, but the short version is I have serious problems with it. Therefore, I’m going to portray Daphne and Astoria more like their accepted fanon personalities rather than JKR’s implied version. This may be important in later chapters.

“So I did try to get Umbridge to postpone your detention for tryouts last night, Harry,” Angelina Johnson said as Hermione sat down for breakfast.

“And?” Harry said disinterestedly.

“Well, she didn’t give me detention for asking, but she did try to suggest that you weren’t suitable for the Quidditch team. Don’t worry, I told her you’re the best we’ve got, but you were right. She’s a piece of work.”

“At least your detention’s over, Harry,” Hermione said. “At least as long as you can control yourself around her.”

“So you just want me to keep my head down?” Harry growled. “Like McGonagall?”

“I want you to choose your battles _wisely_. Focus on battles you can actually _win_ and wait and gather information about the ones you probably can’t yet.”

Harry might have said something in response to that, but Hermione was distracted by the arrival of the _Daily Prophet_. Though she had little faith in the quality of that rag, she still dutifully scanned it every morning in case there was some major development. But today was not one of those days. The front page story was a fluff piece about the bass player from the Weird Sisters getting married.

“Hermione, what’s that?” Harry said.

“Huh? What?”

“Sturgis Podmore.” He pointed at a story on the other side of the page. She turned it over and began to read. Sturgis Podmore had been arrested a week ago for trying to break into a secured area of the Ministry at one o’clock in the morning and had just been sentenced to six months in Azkaban.

“Wasn’t he the one who didn’t show up to escort us to the train last week?” she asked.

“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking,” Harry said. “But six months in Azkaban just for trying to get through a door?”

“That’s not so surprising. In the muggle world, six months for trying to break into a top secret facility would be pretty normal. It’s just that muggle prisons aren’t Azkaban.” She shivered.

“Reckon he was doing something for the Order?” Ron said.

“Shh! Ron, not so loud,” she hissed. “What I want to know is why he refused to speak in his own defence. It _could_ be the you-know- _what_ , but why would Dumbledore be having him do something illegal? I really hope he wasn’t Imperiused instead. You’d think they’d check for that.”

“Maybe it’s a frame-up!” Ron exclaimed.

“What?”

“No, hear me out,” Ron said. “The Ministry suspects he’s with Dumbledore, so they _lure_ him down there somehow to find an excuse to arrest him.”

“Huh. That is…scarily plausible,” Hermione agreed after a moment’s thought. “See, this is why it’s good to have a chess master around.” Ron beamed proudly.

Harry, however, raised an eyebrow at the two of them. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

“Not at all. It’s perfectly in line with the Orwellian script Fudge is following.”

“Orwellian?” he said sceptically.

Hermione sighed: “No offence, Harry, but you weren’t a big reader growing up. I’d loan you my copy of _Nineteen Eighty-Four_ , but I think it might make you a little _too_ paranoid at this point. Fudge already controls the papers. You know that. He set up a kangaroo court to get you expelled from Hogwarts, which was way outside his jurisdiction. _And_ —” She leaned closer and whispered, “and we still don’t know who sent those dementors after you. If they could do that…”

She left the thought hanging. That was by far the scariest part for her. Those dementors could have been feral, or might have been sent by Voldemort, but given the circumstances as she knew them, there was a very real possibility that it was an assassination attempt against Harry by someone inside the Ministry. If they could do that with impunity, then nowhere was safe.

“Well,” another voice said, “ _I_ calibrated the dosage for all of the Skiving Snackbox sweets and their antidotes so that they have useful effects on first- through seventh-years, without a single firstie being sent to the Hospital Wing.”

“Oh, great. More of this,” Ron groaned. Fred and George had joined the breakfast table and were still arguing about their testing procedures. Hermione had been helping George with his part, but she still trying to sway Fred.

“Well, _I_ discovered that the Fever Fudge is stronger in late afternoon, and the Puking Pastilles are more painful than we expected on an empty stomach,” George informed his twin. “Did you figure that into your dosages?”

“It’s not a big enough difference to be important,” Fred insisted. “And I also tried giving a couple of the firsties one of everything—sweets and antidotes—and they came out just fine.”

“That doesn’t sound right,” Hermione cut in. “Golpalott’s Third Law states that—”

“Ah, ah, ah,” he cut her off. “Even if our sweets count as poisons, which they shouldn’t, they weren’t blended. I gave them one at a time. And the test still worked fine, didn’t it?”

“Then you fixed the problem with the antidote to the Fainting Fancies?” George asked.

Fred’s face fell: “What problem?”

“Hermione rigged up a couple of live rat traps to get some rats to test all the antidote combinations. It turns out if you eat a Nosebleed Nougat and then take the antidote to the Fainting Fancies by mistake, it makes the nosebleed way worse. It nearly killed the rat when we tried it.”

“Not to mention the questionable wisdom of skiving off with something you need a friend to give you the antidote for,” Hermione muttered.

“Wait, you’re serious? That combination makes it worse?” Fred asked.

“Not surprising considering the primary effect of the Fainting Fancy antidote is raising blood pressure,” she replied. She had guessed from her parents’ medical books that that was the most likely combination to cause problems.

Fred was stunned. He clearly hadn’t expected any problems like that to show up. Granted, George was pretty surprised, too. He was reeling for a while, unsure if they would be able to make production at all, but Hermione eventually nudged him to try to look for a fix.

“So…if we’d put them out there as is—”

“It could’ve gone really badly,” Hermione said.

“Did you at least find a way to fix it, George?”

“I’m working on it. I should have it sorted this week.”

“Okay, that’s not too bad,” Fred said, slumping a little and taking a calming breath. “So I’ll admit that proves Hermione’s point about more extensive animal testing. But it doesn’t necessarily prove that testing on the first years is a bad idea.”

Hermione groaned and dropped her forehead to the table with a soft thud.

“Maybe not, but it _does_ prove that you’re going about this out of order,” George insisted, rubbing her shoulder gently. “The problems Hermione brought up are a bigger deal than getting the dosage exactly right.”

“Well, sorry for trying to put a good product out on time.”

“I’m not trying to fight you, Fred.”

“No, I get it. I made a mistake. I got carried away trying to…er…”

“Make sure we stay in the black? Yeah, it’d be easier if we had some money. Let’s just try to stay on the same page from now on—and not freak out Hermione.”

“Fine,” Fred said. He looked unhappy to concede defeat, but he’d been backed pretty well into a corner. “So anyway, while I was testing on the first-years, I _did_ find one who has a female puffskein that isn’t spayed, and she’s willing to breed it.”

“Really?” George perked up at once. “We can start our breed of Midget Puffs with Cyrano?”

“Yeah. Just one thing. It’s not a common puffskein. It’s a fancy red breed.”

“Eh, we’ll take what we can get. Besides, it’ll match our hair. We’re making progress here.”

“How long does it take to breed Puffskeins?” asked Hermione.

“About a month for pregnancy,” George said. “We looked it up. Average litter of seven, you can wean the kits at one month, breed them at four months, and they can bear four to six litters a year—about the same as rabbits, actually.”

Hermione began counting on her fingers, month by month. The arithmetic started to get complicated at eight months or so, but she didn’t need to go much further. “Hmm…” she said, “at that rate, you could theoretically turn two puffskeins into two hundred and seventy-seven puffskeins before the beginning of next school year. Of course, you’ll need more founders to establish a healthy line.”

“Two hundred seventy-seven?” Fred said in amazement. “I think we’re in business.”

“We’ll get on that later today,” George agreed. “We need to get going soon.”

“Yeah, no homework this morning, Hermione,” Ron said. “We’ve all got Quidditch practice.”

“That’s alright.”

Ron’s jaw dropped. Fred and Harry stopped and stared at her. George and Ginny snickered at them.

“If you paid attention, you’d know that I’ve got my Arithmancy Master Class with Septima this morning.”

“Oh, right,” Ron laughed. “See you later, then.”

Hermione finished her breakfast and headed up to Septima’s apartment. This week, Georgina was there with her. Septima’s grand-niece was friendly enough with Hermione, probably because of the family connection. She was starting her second year and from what Hermione had heard had had a pleasantly uneventful first year in Slytherin, at least until the final few days.

“Good morning, Hermione,” Septima said when she walked in. “It’s good to see you. I hope you don’t mind; I invited Georgina to tea. I was just asking her how her first week of classes went.”

“It was pretty good except for the usual,” Georgina said eagerly. “History and Defence were boring, but the other classes were interesting.”

“Well, if your Defence class was only boring, you did better than I did,” Hermione grumbled.

“Oh? Did something happen to you?” Septima asked worriedly. “I heard something about Mr. Potter getting detention.”

“That _was_ what happened,” she said. “Harry mouthed off about Voldemort—”

“EEK!” Georgina jumped so high that she knocked over her tea and fell out of her seat.

“Honestly, it’s just a name.”

“N-n-not in Slytherin!” the younger girl squeaked. “You say his name there, and they’ll curse you into the Hospital Wing.”

“Have you seen that?” Hermione said in horror.

Georgina averted her eyes and fell silent. Hermione remembered the rule she’d mentioned before that what happens in Slytherin stays in Slytherin. And she might disagree with most of Snape’s actions, but as a marked Death Eater, he probably really did have to look the other way on things like that.

“I’ll speak with Professor Snape about that,” Septima said. “I don’t know if anything can be done right away, but it’s my duty as a teacher.”

“It doesn’t matter, Aunt Septima,” Georgina said. “They only need to make an example of one person a year. After that, no one’s stupid enough to say it again.”

“Make an example of them?!” Hermione exclaimed. “Do you hear what you’re saying—”

“ _Hermione_!” Septima said sternly. “I appreciate your concern, but this isn’t the time or place for you to get involved. Now, what happened to Mr. Potter?”

“Right,” she sighed. “Harry was mouthing off about—You-Know-Who being back, and he basically called Umbridge a liar, and she gave him a week’s detention. That was a little harsh, but what she _did_ to him…”

Septima raised an eyebrow, and Georgina looked at her seriously. “What?” Septima asked.

“It was…” Hermione glanced at Georgina. “It was pretty nasty.”

“Honestly, I’m twelve years old,” Georgina said with an indignant toss of her hair.

Hermione took a deep breath: “I know, but Harry didn’t want it spread around. We’re looking into what we can do about it, but…”

“I won’t tell anyone, Hermione,” she promised.

Hermione thought for a moment and decided she could trust her. Not only had Georgina been friendly with her in the past, but they both knew full well that if this _did_ get out, it would be quickly traced back to her. And anyway, Harry couldn’t hide the cuts on his hand forever. “Alright,” she said, “Umbridge made him write lines—but not with a normal quill. According to Harry, she has this quill that cuts into your hand as you write and writes the words in blood.” Septima and Georgina both gasped. They knew better than most that blood magic was widely considered dark. “It heals your hand after you write, but with enough repetitions…after a combined _eighteen hours_ , I mean…it stops healing fully.”

“That’s _awful_!” Georgina cried.

“Eighteen hours?” Septima gasped. “In four nights?”

“Three. Sixteen in the first two.”

“Eight hours a night. With _that_ kind of punishment…” she looked a little faint. Georgina was turning green. “That’s why he didn’t hand in his Arithmancy homework, isn’t it? He literally didn’t have time to do it.”

“That’s right. Harry was in Umbridge’s office until one o’clock in the morning. I…have my ways of knowing.”

“Of course you do,” she muttered.

“I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but—” Hermione started.

“No, I believe you.”

“What—? You knew?!” she gasped.

“No, I didn’t know, but I believe you. That’s completely within Umbridge’s character.”

“How?!” she burst out. “How can they let that woman teach children?”

“Because she knows how to work the system. And you will both do well to remember that.”

“But why hasn’t anyone stopped her.”

“She’s too smart for that. Believe me, I know…” she trailed off uneasily.

“Septima, what is it?” Hermione asked.

Septima looked between the two girls with an implicit plea for discretion and said, “Alright, then, I suppose it’s only fair I tell you my secret about that woman…Hermione, Georgina…Dolores Umbridge was my roommate for seven years here at Hogwarts.”

Georgina’s and Hermione’s eyes bugged out. That changed their whole perspective instantly. “So you knew her…” Hermione said.

“She was an unpleasant girl at eleven and an even more unpleasant girl at seventeen. Even as a student, she was controlling, manipulative, power-hungry, and a consummate tattletale. She loved to manipulate the rules to her advantage, and the more people she had to tear down to get ahead the better. Fortunately, Professor Slughorn saw right through her and never gave her any real power, but she was still a nasty piece of work. She fit in just fine with all the pureblood bigots in Slytherin, too.”

“She’s not a Death Eater, is she?” Hermione asked worriedly.

“No, she’d never join them. She’s too wedded to her Ministry job. She _likes_ things the way she’s doing them. I’m sure she wouldn’t hesitate to use dark magic if she needed too, but her preferred methods are bending the laws and rules to her will and sending the Aurors after anyone who crosses her.”

“How can she do that?” Georgina said. “How can she be so mean?”

Septima sighed and looked down at her tea, shaking her head sadly. “Georgina,” she said, “and Hermione—I want you to listen carefully, because this is an important lesson for both of you. Not all villains in this world wear black robes and white masks. Some of them are government bureaucrats in ugly pink cardigans who would rather use the system against people rather than dark curses. And Dolores Umbridge is as expert with that as You-Know-Who is with the Killing Curse. She can manipulate the rules to ruin almost anyone, and right now, she’s set her sights on the hardest target in the country, and she has every intention of winning.”

“Dumbledore,” Hermione breathed.

“Yes. Believe me when I say that she is a real threat to Professor Dumbledore’s position as Headmaster, especially considering she’s now in a position to _make_ the rules and not just enforce them. You have to be very careful when the government gets that kind of power.”

“I understand, Septima,” Hermione said. “Muggle-borns know a lot about oppressive governments.”

“Oh?”

“We’ve seen examples that make Cornelius Fudge look like a boy playing at soldiers. But I do appreciate the perspective. I need to know what I’m getting into.”

“Just so you don’t underestimate her. I know you’ve faced a lot of danger in your time, but trust me when I say you do not want to go up against her.”

“Yes, that’s what I’ve been telling Harry. By the way, is there anything you can do about Harry’s homework?”

Septima shook her head: “No, I’m sorry. I can’t change the rules for one person, especially if it’s over detention. I might consider bending them, but Umbridge will be watching me, too. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven me for being picked as prefect over her.”

“Lovely,” Hermione groaned, and another thought struck her: “Septima, back in my second year, you told me one of your roommates said she wished the Heir of Slytherin would ‘get rid of all the mudbloods’…”

Georgina squeaked with alarm at the profanity, but Septima nodded solemnly. “Yes,” she said. “Dolores Umbridge.”

Hermione decided to change the subject, and they moved on, although Georgina still complained about her house-mates some: “Of course, Draco Malfoy is swaggering around like he owns the place,” she said, rolling her eyes. “And if anyone tells him off for being an arse, he’ll try to scare ‘em off.”

That didn’t surprise Hermione. “Oh?” she said. “Did he say something about—You-Know-Who?”

“No, but you can tell what he means. But I’m not so worried about him. Astoria and her sister can stand up to him, so I’m alright.”

Georgina had befriended Daphne Greengrass’s sister, Astoria, last year. Astoria was a year ahead of her, and if Daphne was any indication, that would put her on the anti-Death Eater axis as much as it was possible in Slytherin. That seemed encouraging to Hermione. “I met Astoria’s sister this week,” she told her. “I managed to start an informal study group with her and Tracey Davis.”

“You did? Daphne’s nice, but I didn’t think she’d work with a Gryffindor.”

“Well, a lot of people respect arithmancy skills. You and Astoria can come find me, too, if you want help. You’re both in third-year Arithmancy, aren’t you?”

“Uh huh. I’ll ask her. She might want to meet you if Daphne did.”

“Great. Thanks, Georgina.” So far so good, Hermione thought.

* * *

Harry might have tried to put it off a little longer, but at Ginny’s insistence, he called Sirius on his mirror right after Quidditch practice. Like any good godfather, Sirius asked him how his week had gone and so forth. Harry glossed over the subject of his detentions, and Sirius gave him much the same response that Professor McGonagall had: good on you for calling Umbridge a liar, but don’t do it again because it’s not worth it. He spent some time talking about his classes and a little more before he explained what had happened with his scar.

That made Sirius turn very serious—no pun intended. “You need to tell Dumbledore, Harry,” he said.

“He doesn’t want to bother with me,” Harry said.

“He’ll want to know about this,” Sirius insisted. “Harry, Dumbledore means well. I don’t fully understand why he’s doing what he’s doing, but I know he has a good reason. I’m still working him over to try to get him to tell me his plan—to tell _you_ his plan I should say.”

“Couldn’t be bothered to this summer, could he?”

“It’s more complicated than that. Dumbledore’s walking a fine line between Voldemort and the Ministry. If it seems like he wants you out of the way for now—”

“It’s because he does?” Harry said irritably.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Sirius said.

“You might as well say it.”

“He’s trying to keep you alive and not expelled, Harry. I don’t fully agree with his methods, but I would _hope_ we can all agree on those goals. And he needs to know about your scar to do that.”

Harry could see Sirius’s point, but he really wasn’t in a mood to admit it, so he just changed the subject: “Do you think Umbridge could be possessed, like Quirrell?”

“No, I don’t see how she could be possessed by Voldemort,” Sirius replied. “Voldemort has a body, now. And I don’t think she’s a Death Eater, either—possible, but unlikely. It was probably just a coincidence she was there at the time. Your scar was aching all last year, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Harry admitted. A part of him actually felt disappointed. It almost would’ve been easier if Umbridge _were_ with Voldemort—one less enemy to deal with. “Dumbledore said it was when Voldemort was feeling a powerful emotion or something like that.”

“Well, there you go. You still need to be careful around her, though.”

“What else can she do? She’s already not letting us use magic in class.” _Not to mention the detentions_ , he added mentally.

“She can still try to expel you.”

Harry had to concede that point.

“Anyway, I’m not surprised she’s not letting you use magic. Our insider sources at the Ministry say Fudge doesn’t want you trained in combat.”

 _“Trained in combat?!”_ Harry said. “What, he thinks we’re gonna make an army out of a bunch of kids?”

“It’s not as crazy as it sounds,” Sirius said. “Half the Order was recruited straight out of Hogwarts last time around. It’s crazy to think Dumbledore’s going after the Ministry, mind, but no one ever said Fudge was sane.”

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Harry said. He must have shifted his hand somehow when he wasn’t paying attention, because Sirius suddenly noticed it.

“Harry, what happened to your hand?”

“Nothing,” he said quickly, putting his hand farther out of sight.

“It looked like it was cut up.”

“It’s nothing. It’s not important.”

“Now, that tone means it really _is_ important.” Sirius’s parental lie detector was getting pretty good.

“Sirius, do we really have to do this?” Harry pleaded.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got it sorted.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Harry.”

“Really—”

“Harry, I’m your godfather, and I need to know if something’s wrong with you. Now show me your hand.”

Harry sighed heavily and showed his hand to the mirror, eliciting exactly the response he expected. After Sirius had stopped swearing, he called a weary-looking Remus over to see, and after _he_ had stopped swearing (Harry was surprised to find Remus swore even more than Sirius) he asked Harry to explain exactly what had happened and considered the problem. “I’ve never heard of a quill that does that before,” he said. “I can think of a vague idea of how you might make one, but I’ve never heard of anyone doing it before.”

“I thought she was just a pureblood supremacist bitch,” Sirius growled. “I never thought she’d hurt Harry.”

“It’s Umbridge. Wha’d’you expect?”

“You know her?” Harry said.

“Not personally, thank Merlin. But she hates half-breeds. She’s behind all that new anti-werewolf legislation, wants to have merpeople rounded up and tagged, the works.” He growled. “We’ve got to do something about her!”

“Easy,” Sirius cut him off. “Don’t think with Moony, Remus. Whatever we do, we need to make sure Harry isn’t expelled.”

“But you can do something?” Harry said, a spark of hope appearing for the first time.

“I don’t know. We don’t have a lot of room to manoeuvre. The trouble is, anything we do, the Ministry can try to block it. Hmm, let me think…Okay, how about this? Harry, you check the school bylaws and see what it says about corporal punishment. And I’ll approach Amelia Bones privately and see if she can do anything. But I’ll warn you, Pup, Fudge has this locked down pretty tight. There might not be much she can do without risking her job, and she’s more useful in the government than out of it. Mind you, you say the word, and I’ll push this as far as it’ll go, but—”

“No. Stopping Voldemort’s more important. And I’m not giving Umbridge the satisfaction of losing to her.”

“You don’t have to put up with her doing… _that_ to you,” Remus said.

“It doesn’t matter. The detentions are over anyway.”

“Alright, just try not to get any more,” Sirius conceded. “We’ll let you know if we get anywhere with this.”

“Thanks, guys.”

* * *

_Dear Mum and Dad_

_So, honestly, it_ _’s been a long, hard week here at Hogwarts. A lot of things happened that are worth writing about…and I’m just going to take them chronologically so I’m not just spewing words incoherently across the parchment._

_The first night, it turned out that because I left Hogwarts and re-enrolled, I had to be re-Sorted. Don_ _’t worry, I went back to Gryffindor, but the Sorting Hat made a disturbingly good case for me to go to Slytherin instead. The Hat sang a long song about the dangers of the divisions between the Houses and how we all need to come together to defeat our enemies. I’m going to try to do my part with that, but it’s a slow process at best._

_We have two new teachers this year. Professor Grubbly-Plank was subbing for Hagrid last year, and she_ _’s back this year since Hagrid is mysteriously absent. The other one is Professor Umbridge, whom…_

Hermione had to put her quill down and take a few deep breaths at this point.

 

_—whom the Ministry appointed to teach Defence. I_ _’m not sure what authority they had to dictate hiring here, and she’s isn’t a very good teacher. To start with, she actually_ _ interrupted _ _Professor Dumbledore_ _’s welcome speech to make a big political speech that basically boils down to the Ministry wanting things done its way here. In class, she tells us to read from the course book, and that’s it—no lecture or demonstration or anything, and even the course book itself I don’t think is very good. I really don’t think she’s adequate preparing us for the O.W.L. exam. And then she gave Harry a week’s detention for mouthing off and calling her a liar because she denies Voldemort’s back._

_But now I_ _’m getting out of order, aren’t I. Sorry. The school is pretty divided about the Voldemort thing. Out of my roommates, Parvati and Sally-Anne believe Harry and Professor Dumbledore, but Lavender and Lily don’t. It’s really hurting Sally-Anne’s and Lily’s relationship, and I had to tell Lavender to shut her mouth the first night._

_I talked to Septima last weekend, and she_ _’s very pleased I still want to do my mastery with her. We think we can make it work even when I go back to France. She gave me some advice about reaching out to the Slytherins without making too many waves, too. I also…_

Something stopped Hermione here. She hadn’t exactly held back from her parents about what she was doing with regard to mapping the school, even if she hadn’t quite conveyed how much it was against the rules. But she remembered what Dumbledore said: owls can be intercepted. She didn’t _need_ to tell her parents all the details, and she wouldn’t want the enemy finding out about her little security system on the off chance they got a hold of this letter.

 

_—got those extra safety measures I mentioned up and running. Meanwhile, George and Fred have been getting a little carried away about their product testing. I tried to reign them in, and it worked with George, but we_ _’re still trying to convince Fred._

_Classes are much more difficult this year because we_ _’ve gone straight into O.W.L. preparation. Professor Snape threw us all in the deep end even more than usual. Hardly anyone was able to make a decent attempt at this week’s potion. I never did find out what became of those complaints I made against him in third year. I’ll ask this week. The other classes have been fun, though. We started with Vanishing Spells in Transfiguration, which may have opened some new avenues of research I want to look into._

_I_ _’m still worried about Cedric and Cho. I think the shock of what happened last spring really strained their relationship. I’m going to try to talk to them this weekend to see if I can help. But I think I’ve started to make some new friends. I formed a new study group with Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, who are probably the two most pleasant Slytherins in my year._

_Anyway, about Professor Umbridge: she gave Harry a week_ _’s detention, and…_

Once again, Hermione stopped. Something told her she should maybe hold back here, but it took her a minute to pinpoint it: it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to broadcast what she knew about Harry’s precarious emotional state. Not when there was a risk of being intercepted by the enemy.

 

_—well, suffice it to say I_ _’m pretty sure something illegal is going on, and we’re looking into what can be done about it. Professor Umbridge seems like a pretty nasty woman. She was Septima’s roommate when they were students, if you can believe it, and Septima didn’t have very nice things to say about her._

_Ron made the Quidditch team this year. He_ _’s the new Keeper, although it sounds like he needs a lot of practice. I hope things are going well with you. Keep me posted on things back at home._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

 

Hermione took her letter up to the Owlery just after leaving Septima’s office. Interestingly, she spotted the caretaker, Argus Filch, lurking around the entrance. “Hello, Mr. Filch,” she said cheerfully and waved when she saw him.

“Yeah, and what’re _you_ up to?” he demanded with a scowl. “Ordering dung-bombs?”

“Er, no,” Hermione said, confused. “I’m just sending a letter to my parents.”

“A likely story.”

“What do you mean, a likely story? I’ve got the letter right here.” She showed him the envelope, which read:

 

_Drs. Daniel and Emma Granger_

_17 Salisbury Rd_

_Crawley, West Sussex_

 

Filch snatched the letter and inspected it suspiciously.

“Why would I be ordering dung-bombs, anyway?” she demanded.

“Given your choice of boyfriend, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

Oh, so _that_ _’s_ what this was about. Filch had been friendly with her since second year when she figured out a runic array that allowed the squib to brew potions, but he also considered the Twins to be his archenemies, and he wouldn’t appreciate her dating one of them.

“Honestly, Mr. Filch, I think I’m a little old for such a juvenile prank,” she said. “And I _will_ be trying to keep George and Fred in line while I’m here.”

Filch didn’t reply to that, but he handed back her letter and went on his way.

The Owlery was not a particularly hygienic place, and Hermione tried to spend as little time there as possible. There were owl droppings everywhere, and she was surprised she hadn’t managed to take one on her head in the past four years—although perhaps magical owls knew to avoid people when they did their business. There really ought to be some charms to keep it cleaner, though, she thought.

At the moment, there was only one other person in the Owlery: Cho Chang. “Hello, Cho. Nice day,” Hermione called.

“Hi, Hermione,” she said flatly. “Er…yeah, good Quidditch conditions today.” Cho was affixing a letter and parcel to a barn owl.

“Special occasion?” Hermione asked, noting the parcel. It wasn’t often that someone would be sending a package _from_ school.

“Yes, it’s my mum’s birthday today. Are you writing home?”

“Mm hmm. I always write home every Saturday.”

“That’s nice of you.”

“My parents worry about me. Especially after what’s happened the last few years here.”

Cho grimaced, but she quickly hid it. She finished sending her parcel and left, saying, “I’ll see you around, Hermione.”

Hermione sent her owl on its way and hurried to catch up. “Actually, Cho, I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” she said.

Cho turned in surprise. “What about?” she asked.

“Well…I’m sorry if it’s not my business, but…how are things with you and Cedric?”

Cho gave a soft squeak and turned away, tears rapidly forming in her eyes.

“Cho?” Hermione said worriedly.

“I…I don’t know,” she stammered. “Why?”

“Why? Because Cedric is my friend, and I want him to be happy. He told me you’ve been distant with him all summer. He thinks you’re going to break it off soon.”

“He does?” she gasped.

“Yes. What is he supposed to think when your relationship is on the rocks for so long? He says he can’t even hold a proper conversation with you.”

“I didn’t mean to…” Cho started again. “He was such a brilliant wizard—”

“He still is,” Hermione cut in. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated. “I don’t want to end it, but…but I can’t bear to look at him like this.”

“What?” Hermione demanded. “What because of the arm and the leg?” When Cho continued to give her an uncomfortable silence, she couldn’t help herself and started shouting at the older girl: “What’s the matter with you? Cedric’s survived! He fought a vicious Death Eater, and he came out of it alive! Do you know it was only by a narrow margin that he wasn’t killed by Crouch’s first spell? It was incredibly brave of him to fight that fight for Harry.”

“I know, it’s just…”

“What?!” she snapped.

“He lost his _wand hand_ , Hermione!” Cho yelled back. “Do you realise how awful that is for a wizard? That can’t ever be fixed! And it’s not a custom or a superstition like the taboo on breaking someone’s wand. He’ll never be as good a wizard as he was before!”

“Bollocks!” she said. There was a brief silence, as she’d surprised even herself. Sometimes she wondered what was becoming of her vocabulary with all this trouble going on. “So Cedric’s not as good with a wand as he used to be. He’s still brilliant, kind, and brave, not to mention he’s making a lot of progress casting left handed. But what he _doesn_ _’t_ have—what he _needs_ —is a girlfriend he can count on. One who will stay by his side and help him recover.” Cho was looking more and more uncomfortable, but Hermione didn’t let up: “He still cares a lot for you. Do you know how hard it is for him—you stringing him along like this—refusing to look at him, but not coming out and breaking it off?”

“Okay, I get it!” Cho shouted. “I just…I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you love him?”

Hermione blurted it out without thinking, but it seemed like the right question. Normally, she would have thought it was too forward, but it made sense when she thought about how much Cedric seemed to be hurting. Cho looked almost wounded when she said it. It must have cut deep, but it definitely brought them to the real point. “I…” Cho said, and then she fell silent for a long time, but she finally decided: “Yes, I think I do.”

“Then quit being an idiot and go back to him,” Hermione said firmly.

“It’s not that simple,” Cho glared at her.

“Is it?” she asked.

“Since when are you an expert?”

“Okay, yes, I’m new at dating and I’m not an expert on that, let alone love. I admit it,” Hermione answered. “But I do know one thing: Professor Dumbledore says love is the most powerful magic in the world. Maybe it can’t fix Cedric’s hand, but I know it can overcome a lot more than a couple of missing limbs…if you really _are_ right for him, that is.”

“What?” Cho said indignantly.

“Well if _this_ is how you react, I have to question it. You believe us that Voldemort’s back. You know there’s a war coming. Things are going to get a lot worse before they get better. A lot of people are going to get maimed or killed or tortured before this is over…” She took a breath to keep a quiver out of her voice. Hermione had thought more than she’d cared to on this over the summer. It was going to be hard. But she shook off her thoughts and pressed on: “If Cedric can’t count on you to stand by him, then he needs better. He _deserves_ better.”

“I can stand by him,” Cho said fiercely.

Hermione raised her eyebrow: “Really? Because you haven’t done such a good job of it so far.”

“I…I don’t want to lose him,” she said.

“Now, that much I can believe. But if you really mean that, you need to decide whether you can get over this complex of yours and be there for him properly because I will _not_ let you hurt him anymore.”

Cho took a step back. Hermione knew she could be intimidating when she wanted to be. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” she said weakly. “I never meant to hurt him. I…I think I need some time alone.”

Cho walked away, and Hermione let her go. She did hope she could get her act together, for Cedric’s sake, but she really wasn’t sure the girl was up for it. Well, only time would tell.

* * *

Sunday passed pleasantly uneventfully. Hermione convinced Ron and Harry to do their homework and was happy to help them out with a rather detailed essay about the moons of Jupiter. She’d had to hold herself back from laughing when Harry wrote that Europa was covered in mice rather than ice.

The only unpleasant thing was when Ron received a letter from Percy of all people ostensibly congratulating him for becoming a prefect. However, the bulk of the letter was warning Ron to stay away from Harry given that both he and Dumbledore were under a cloud, and Harry had been in court and got off on a “mere technicality.” (“As is self-defence is a “technicality’!” Hermione fumed. “Percy was even _there in the courtroom_!”) He suggested that Ron talk to Umbridge (“a really delightful woman”) if he worried about Harry becoming violent and alluded to something that was going to appear in the paper the next morning that might threaten Dumbledore’s position as Headmaster. And _then_ , to top it all off, Percy tried to convince Ron to cut ties with their parents, like he had.

Honestly, if Percy were _her_ brother, Hermione might actually send him a Howler. Besides deliberately trying to tear apart his own family, she didn’t see how anyone could consider Dolores Umbridge “really delightful” even if he agreed with her.

The mystery of Percy’s not-so-cryptic clues was solved when the _Prophet_ arrived the next morning and trumpeted right on the front page that Umbridge had been named the Hogwarts High Inquisitor.

“Is that even legal?” Hermione asked. “I thought the Board of Governors had final authority over the school.” Her friends shrugged. It was worth looking into, she thought. She was pretty sure she was right about the Board. She’s need to look up the exact legal status of the school, but the Board’s authority was presumably set down in a school charter. And since Hogwarts was older than the Ministry of Magic, the Wizards’ Council, _and_ the Round Table—that is, older than every national governing body for magic—that charter must either have been backed by the estates of the Founders themselves, or have been a royal charter under the muggle King of Scotland at the time. It would take some research to figure out what the successor governing bodies were and their relationship with the current Ministry.

The newest Educational Decree, Number Twenty-Three, gave Umbridge the power to inspect the other teachers’ classes and determine if they were meeting the Ministry’s educational standards. Of course, that wouldn’t stop her from teaching herself. Hermione didn’t disagree that there were a couple of teachers at Hogwarts who weren’t up to snuff, but she doubted she’d list the same ones as Lucius Malfoy, who was quoted in the article, and she didn’t trust Umbridge as far as she could throw her.

Meanwhile, Hermione received her usual letter from her parents, but even that seemed a little off:

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_We_ _’re pleased to hear that you’re settling back in at Hogwarts very well, despite the trouble with your roommates. We hope that you can understand each other better and come to a reconciliation with them. It sounds like you’ve been very busy. It was a surprise to hear you had to be re-Sorted. Of course, we would be proud of you no matter which house you joined, but just the same, we’re glad you didn’t go to Slytherin, as it sounds like the students there would be unfriendly with you at best, and, frankly, we would have worried for your safety._

_Speaking of which, we_ _’d like you to refresh our memories a little. What new safety measures does the school need? Is there a reason you can’t trust the teachers with them?_

_And what_ _’s this about product testing with George and Fred? Are they breaking the rules with what they’re doing? If so, we want you to stay out of it._

_We hope your classes go well and that you are managing your time well. We know this year will be difficult for you, so please let us know if you start to fall behind or fall into a rut like you have before. We know you can do well in all your classes. You just need to pace yourself, make sure you get enough sleep, and talk to someone if something_ _’s really bothering you._

_We were a little concerned about those detentions you mentioned Harry got with the new teacher. Why did you say you think everything is legal? Is there some reason it wouldn_ _’t be? We’re sure she can’t be too bad if the school agreed to hire her. And you said she and Septima were roommates in school? That sounds very interesting. You’ll have to tell us more about what she said. We’d love to hear what those two were like as students._

_Love from,_

_Mum and Dad_

 

Hermione put the letter down when she finished it and said, “Okay, that’s _definitely_ not right.”

It was subtle. Her parents had clearly written most of it, but there were little clues that not all was as it appeared. The most telling line was _Is there a reason you can_ _’t trust the teachers with them?_ But there were others, too. They seemed inordinately concerned with any rule breaking and more trusting than usual about the authority figures in the magical world. If this was her first or second year, that would be understandable, but after everything she’d been through, she knew they weren’t too confident about the school or the Ministry, and they (mostly) trusted her judgement about when the rules needed to be broken. And then there was that fixation with what Septima had said about Umbridge. But the oddest part was where they said she said Harry’s detentions were legal. Could they have misread that line? Hermione thought that _pretty sure something illegal is going on_ was pretty clear. She didn’t see how they could’ve got read that wrong unless…

“Unless someone’s been tampering with our mail,” she whispered.

Rethinking it in that light, it made much more sense. If she had been a normal student, she probably wouldn’t have noticed the other slips because they wouldn’t have been so far out of the ordinary. And with fewer red flags, she might have chalked up that last one to a simple misreading. But she could tell. Someone had read and changed her letter after she sent it—and had probably changed her parent’s letter on the way back. Just enough to encourage her to spill her secrets about her rule-breaking and Septima’s badmouthing of Umbridge.

That line of thought led to one worrying conclusion: the person intercepting her mail wasn’t Voldemort. It was Umbridge. At least that was certainly what it looked like. She needed to find a way to test it for sure without looking suspicious. Luckily, she had a way of passing information without being intercepted.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: “JK Rowling owns Harry Potter” is not a straw-man argument.

“I consider Slinkhard’s view of counterjinxes to be a straw-man argument,” Hermione said in Defence class that day. Through a slightly obsessive effort, she had managed to plough through Wilbert Slinkhard’s drivel of a textbook in the past week and was now being quizzed on it by Umbridge for her trouble.

“Excuse me?” the disagreeable woman said.

“Well, using the word ‘counterjinx’ in the context he does isn’t even standard terminology. A counterjinx more commonly means a spell to reverse a jinx. Slinkhard seems to be using it to refer to a more offensive sort of spell to make a point.”

“Oh, really? And what point would that be?”

“Slinkhard’s central thesis seems to be that defensive magic should be purely…well, defensive. And yes, I know that sounds tautological, but it’s really not. He goes on at length about shielding and concealment, but he looks down on mostly-harmless offensive spells that are designed to incapacitate an opponent, like Tongue-Tying Jinxes or Stickfast Hexes—as in the counterjinx passage. I think that’s a very incomplete way of looking at self-defence.”

That didn’t go over so well. The exchange immediately ended with Umbridge taking five points from Gryffindor for disrupting class with “pointless interruptions” and then Harry sticking his foot in it. He just _had_ to mouth off about Voldemort when she brought up Quirrell.

There was a silence in which Hermione barely restrained herself from smacking herself in the forehead, and then…

“Another week’s detentions will do you a great deal of good, I think, Mr. Potter.”

Hermione gasped in horror. She chanced a look at Harry and saw he had turned pale, but he still wore a defiant expression.

She was so angry at Harry and Umbridge both that she had snapped two quills by dinner time. She didn’t even try to defend Harry when Angelina laid into him again for missing Quidditch practice or when Professor McGonagall took points from him. But as foolish as he was, Umbridge was worse. Another week like the last one could do serious damage to Harry’s hand.

The one spot of good news that day was that she heard through the grapevine that Cho had cornered Cedric, kissed him, and apologised for being such a lousy girlfriend all summer, so it looked like Hermione’s talk had made an impression on her. She didn’t know if it would last, but it was a start.

That night, Hermione demanded that Harry call Sirius and Remus again. They also laid into him, even Sirius, who said it was one thing to “fight the power,” but he had to be smarter about how he did it. They had some bad news for him on their end, too. Amelia Bones was justifiably angry about Umbridge’s “punishment,” but she didn’t have the political leverage to make a move against her. She was more likely to be fired herself if she fought that fight.

Sirius then asked an annoyed Harry if he had looked into the school bylaws yet. He hadn’t, but Hermione had. Unfortunately, she’d found that corporal punishment was still allowed at Hogwarts so long as it didn’t cause “serious injury.” It wasn’t clear what constituted a “serious injury,” but she was mindful about what Septima had said about bending the rules. “If Umbridge is as sneaky as Septima says,” she told them, “she’ll be able to make the argument that it’s not serious.”

“Well, that’s no good,” Sirius said. “I don’t get it. I thought they’d changed the bylaws. Filch would hang us by our ankles sometimes when he caught us sneaking around, but he stopped after our fourth year.”

Hermione ignored how absurd that punishment sounded and said, “I don’t know. I can ask Septima about it, though.”

“Yeah, you should try that. Maybe McGonagall, too.”

* * *

The next couple days passed like a whirlwind. Hermione’s first class to be inspected by Umbridge was Transfiguration on Tuesday, which was highly entertaining given Professor McGonagall’s condescending remarks to the High Inquisitor’s interruptions of her class. Umbridge also inspected the Care of Magical Creatures class and sounded a little too interested in why Hagrid wasn’t back yet. Professor Grubbly-Plank was professional and still took Professor Dumbledore’s line, though.

That afternoon, Hermione spoke to Septima about school punishments. She learnt that while the bylaws hadn’t been changed, Dumbledore had thought Filch’s punishments were excessive, especially given the stress of wartime, and used his discretion as Headmaster to forbid him from using them. Harry was in detention till nearly midnight that night, but as soon has he got back, she demanded he call up Sirius on his mirror and told them.

Harry’s godfather laughed. “That makes it easy, then,” he said gleefully. “Just tell Dumbledore what that woman is doing to you and ask him to use his discretion to stop it.”

“I don’t want to bother him—” he started.

Hermione cut him off and asked the more important question: “Is that safe? I mean, Professor Dumbledore is the one she really wants.”

“He may not have the leverage he used to, but he cares about his students, especially Harry,” Remus said. “He won’t want to let this go, and he _does_ still have the influence to take care of it. If it goes to the public, or even to the Board of Governors, they’ll take his side.”

Harry still didn’t really want to do it, but Hermione insisted. “You still need to tell him about your scar, anyway,” she said.

On Wednesday morning, Harry showed his hand to Professor McGonagall. Professor McGongall reportedly had a fit that was most unbecoming of a teacher and then told Professor Dumbledore. Professor Dumbledore made a note of Harry’s scar hurting, but said he was probably just picking up emotions from Voldemort like before. Harry said Dumbledore didn’t seem very supportive and barely even looked at him before sending him on his way, so he wasn’t confident about the outcome. However, by that afternoon, he was told that his detention had been reassigned to Mr. Filch.

Hermione went to bed that night feeling pretty pleased with herself.

Then, on Thursday, a new notice appeared on the bulletin board.

 

_By Order of The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_

_The High Inquisitor will henceforth have supreme authority over all punishments, sanctions, and removal of privileges pertaining to the students of Hogwarts, and the power to alter such punishments, sanctions, and removals of privileges as may have been placed by other staff members._

_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Four._

_Signed by:_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_High Inquisitor_

 

“Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me!”

“Nice going, Hermione.”

“I was only trying to help.”

* * *

Harry didn’t feel like talking to Hermione the rest of the day. And to add insult to injury, his first class that morning, Arithmancy, was under inspection by the High Inquisitor herself. It didn’t surprise him at all when Umbridge smiled her wicked smile at him when he walked in the door and told him, “Mr. Potter, your detention has been reassigned back to me. Please report to my office at five o’clock.”

Despite this, Harry was interested to see how Umbridge’s inspection of Professor Vector would go since, according to Hermione, they had known each other for a long time. He hoped that meant Professor Vector would run circles around her like Professor McGonagall had.

Professor Vector didn’t play it quite as aloof as McGonagall. She nodded to Umbridge and said, “Good morning, Dolores,” when she entered. But she then collected the homework and began lecturing as if nothing unusual were happening.

They were beginning the year with a detailed study of functions and how they described relations between one aspect of spells and another. Harry didn’t really see the importance so far. Professor Vector spoke like there was some deep meaning behind the idea that equations themselves could be looked at as objects to be manipulated, but to him, it still looked like they were just moving variables around in the equations. True, not all functions were equations in the normal sense, but most of the ones they’d be using in spells this year certainly did.

“Now, most piecewise functions won’t be relevant for the spellcrafting we’ll be doing,” Professor Vector said, “but one particular class of them—”

 _“Hem, hem,”_ said Professor Umbridge.

“Yes, Dolores?”

“I take it that you receive my note telling you the time and date of your inspection, Professor?” Umbridge said with her usual saccharineness.

Professor Vector raised an eyebrow at her: “Oh, was that today, Dolores? I was under the impression that you were interested in a refresher course in my class. If you want to arrange an independent study, I’d be happy to talk at the end of the period.”

 _“Excuse me?”_ Umbridge said amid stifled sniggers from the class. Even Draco Malfoy looked like he was trying not to laugh.

“Oh, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Most witches and wizards are simply too busy to keep their arithmancy skills sharp after graduation, especially an _esteemed_ Ministry representative such as yourself. And we both know I have some experience with one-on-one tutoring, _Dolores_.”

Most of the class caught on at once and had to fight even harder not to laugh. Harry could see Umbridge turning red and wondered if this was what the two professors were like as students. He thought Umbridge might spout off some personal insult, but she restrained herself and said, “I am merely here to inspect your class, _Professor Vector_.”

“Then by all means,” Vector said. “Now, the piecewise functions that most commonly appear in spellcrafting are absolute-value functions. We’ll discuss later the proper usage of absolute value functions versus square roots…”

Harry had to admire Professor Vector. It seemed like a classic Slytherin move, subtly questioning Umbridge’s maths skills without actually saying anything. It was a bit risky, maybe, but Umbridge didn’t try anything the whole rest of the class—just made notes on her parchment—so that was a plus.

* * *

Hermione was still in a bad mood that afternoon when she went to her study group with Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, and she wasn’t exactly subtle about it as she unthinkingly dropped her books onto the table and collapsed into the chair with a scowl.

“Oi, Granger, what’s got into you?” Davis asked.

“Huh?” she snapped out of it. “Oh, just this stupid feud between Harry and Professor Umbridge.”

“Of course it is. Is this about the new Educational Decree this morning?”

“Yes. Harry…er, found a loophole to get his detentions this week reassigned, but Umbridge went around him and changed the rules.” Hermione didn’t mention her own part in the affair. Harry wasn’t the only one who was unhappy about the new rule, after all.

“Ah, the wonderful life of the Boy-Who-Lived,” Greengrass said smugly.

“Don’t you start, Greengrass. Let’s just pretend like we don’t disagree about Voldemort and all that, shall we?”

Greengrass and Davis both yelped in horror.

“I know, I know. Don’t let the other Slytherins hear that,” Hermione said.

“Ugh. And _that_ _’s_ why you’re a Gryffindor, Granger,” Davis said. “No Ravenclaw would be that crazy, no matter how smart she was.”

“It’s not about the houses,” she snapped. “It’s about not being intimidated.” Honestly, had people at this school defined each other by their houses this much her first three years here? “Come on, let’s just get to studying.”

They did and managed to be civil about it. The Slytherin girls didn’t want to arouse Hermione’s ire, and Hermione was too tired to start an argument. It took a while, but they gradually relaxed around each other.

Really, Hermione didn’t particularly _need_ their help, even for Charms and Magical Creatures, which they were nominally helping her with, although it was nice to have them to lean on. And Greengrass, at least, didn’t _really_ need Hermione’s help to pass Arithmancy, although she would definitely help improve her marks. Actually, that was more of a learning experience for Hermione. She needed to learn how to teach the fifth-year basic algebra concepts without losing her patience. It was a lot different from trying to talk Septima though real analysis—or even through linear algebra. And even now, she still felt the need to interject interesting, but irrelevant university-level background to the maths they were talking about. Anytime she saw the other girls’ eyes glaze over when she went off about discrete functions or number theory or some such, she knew she needed to tone it down.

Greengrass looked annoyed with her frequent digressions, but Davis seemed to think it was funny—probably laughing at how she couldn’t stay on topic, she guessed.

“So how _did_ you get to be an arithmancy super-genius, anyway?” Davis asked after the third or fourth time it happened.

“I was born that way, I suppose,” Hermione said. “Granted, it also took a lot of hard work, but I needed something to work with to get anywhere.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was _all_ natural talent,” Greengrass said, “but how do you go from not knowing anything about magic to doing groundbreaking research in only four years?”

“First off, I knew loads of maths before I came to Hogwarts,” Hermione said, ignoring the subtle dig at her heritage. “I’d been learning that since before I can even remember.”

“Seriously? You must’ve been one _weird_ kid,” Davis exclaimed.

Hermione noted the jibe, but took it in stride: “Oh I’ll admit that. It’s just that numbers came so easily to me that I wanted to learn all I could. And then, when I found out I could invent magic spells with them, I felt like, “Where have you been all my life?’”

Both of the other girls giggled at that good-naturedly. Greengrass smiled and said, “Trust you, Granger, to be married to your numbers.”

“You’re just jealous,” Hermione grinned back.

“Debatable. So what do you want to do with it? Is the professional arithmancer life for you?”

Hermione didn’t mention many of her ideas that might be helpful in the war and just said, “That’s what I’m looking at. I have enough research ideas to last me a long time. And I feel like I’d like to have a proper office or laboratory, like an enchantress or an Unspeakable.”

“Unspeakable?” Davis said. “Ambitious. Not many people interested in that straight-out.”

“Well, that’s me. So what about you two? Any grand plans for the future?”

It wasn’t quite as safe a question to ask a pair of Slytherins as a Gryffindor, especially these days. They didn’t telegraph their intentions so much, and not without reason. They looked at each other and seemed to hold a silent conversation. But Greengrass shrugged and answered, “Oh, you know: learning magic, practising my political and social skills, becoming a skilled witch able to manage a large estate, and ideally finding a future husband befitting a proper pureblood lady.”

Hermione secretly wondered how Greengrass felt about how close Malfoy was with Parkinson. He was on the top of the social ladder, but then again, they didn’t share the same politics, which were pretty important around here. “Is that it?” she asked cautiously.

“Hmpf. I’m not locked into it if that’s what you mean, Granger,” she said with a touch of indignation. “But if my mother and a lot of my friends’ mothers are any indication, a well-connected witch can always find something interesting to do in her ‘normal’ life.”

“Well, I wish you luck with that. You have any plans, Davis?”

“I’m not as well connected as Daphne, here. I might go Ministry. Might just take a job in a shop for a while…a _nice_ shop,” she added for clarity.

It was an interesting conversation. Hermione wasn’t much aware of what work was available in the magical world outside her own narrow field. And without (in the best case) muggle history, science, and literature, most witches and wizards would need remedial classes to find good work in the muggle world. It seemed like that was one of those isolating factors that had always worried her a bit about magical life.

The problems of magical education simmered in the back of her mind, and she discretely checked her watch. Five o’clock. Harry would be going to Umbridge’s office right now for his seventh detention with the wicked witch, and Hermione had a bad feeling she’d keep him past midnight again as punishment for weaselling out of it yesterday. It was barbaric! In the muggle world, Umbridge would have been arrested after the first night and would be facing ten years in prison for cruelty to a child. (Hermione had looked up the penalty when she first realised how awful Harry’s relatives were.)

After a while, she realised that maybe there was something else her new acquaintances could help her with. “Greengrass, you’re from an old family that’s been involved in politics for a long time, right?” she asked

“What’s it to you?” Greengrass said suspiciously.

“I was just wondering if you knew what the final governing authority is over Hogwarts. I’ve been trying to trace the history, and it all seems very complicated.”

“Oh. It’s not that complicated. Hogwarts was founded, funded, and operated by the Founders themselves before there was any government for wizards. It’s always operated independently ever since…and the Ministry recognises its legal status, of course.”

“So it was presumably grandfathered into the law as a non-profit organisation?”

“I have no idea what that means, Granger.”

“They let it exist as is because it was there before the Ministry and is a respected institution?” she tried.

“Well, sort of,” Greengrass explained. “Hogwarts is independent, but under Ministry law, all school-aged children in Britain are required to attend an _accredited_ school or education program. That’s why you’re back this year, isn’t it? Changes to accreditation rules? And the Ministry gives Hogwarts its accreditation.”

Hermione frowned: “So they could take it away if they wanted to?” That would be _very_ bad.

But Greengrass and Davis burst out laughing. “Oh, Merlin’s beard, Granger,” Greengrass gasped, “please tell me you’re not that naive. I mean, sure they could in theory, but there’d be a riot. People would keep sending their kids here anyway because there’s nowhere else to go in the country. Employers would still accept Hogwarts diplomas because there’s nothing better around. The Ministry would lose all credibility. Even the High Inquisitor couldn’t do _that_.”

“Then how can they force the school to hire a High Inquisitor at all. Isn’t that up to the Board of Governors, then?”

“It’s supposed to be but it’s not that simple. I get where you’re coming from. I wrote my grandfather after I saw how Umbridge was teaching. We agree with you Gryffindors on one thing: that woman is teaching a completely crap class. He explained to me how they got it all done. I asked just to be sure, and yes, the Board of Governors does have the final authority over the school. It always has.”

“So how did they do it?”

“Easy. Fudge forced through a bunch of new accreditation requirements right before the term started. That’s what all these Educational Decrees really are: accreditation requirements.”

“But you said the Board didn’t have to follow them.”

“Uh uh. She never said _that_ , Granger,” Davis cut in. “The Ministry can’t take our accreditation, but if the Board of Governors openly defied the rules, there’d be just as big a protest against them. They’d never get away with it.”

“Unless the rules got so ridiculous that everyone could see how wrong they were?” Hermione said hopefully.

“Ha! You’ll be waiting a long time for that,” Greengrass said. “I bet most voters who don’t have kids here don’t even know what’s going on yet.”

“Argh…But…That…” Hermione sputtered as her brain short-circuited and tried to reconnect. “So the Ministry can’t afford to take away the school’s accreditation, but the Board still can’t get away with defying the Ministry?” she demanded.

“Now you’re learning, Granger,” Davis quipped.

“But that’s completely ridiculous!”

“Yes, but that’s the way the world works,” Greengrass told her.

Hermione packed up her books and stood up: “Hmpf. Excuse me, I think need to go hex something.”

Both girls raised their eyebrows. “Don’t let Umbridge find out about that,” Davis advised.

“Don’t worry. I won’t.”

* * *

It was the first time that year Hermione had had occasion to visit the Room of Requirement. The marvellous space on the seventh floor must have been designed by Rowena Ravenclaw herself. It acted as a catchall magical storage room for the whole castle that only appeared when it was needed, and it could turn into any kind of room you asked for as long as everything in it could be transfigured, copied, or delivered up from its storage. In the past four years, it had supplied her with useful objects like Dictaquills and broken wands for study and even a room full of cushions to teach Harry the Banishing Charm last year.

Today, Hermione felt her anger boiling over, and she wanted to fire off some hexes like she _should_ have been doing in Defence Class. True to form, the Room supplied a training room, which, based on her muggle upbringing, looked like a police shooting range, with man-shaped silhouettes with bulls-eyes drawn on them.

And so, she started casting spells.

She was alarmed to find that her aim wasn’t as good as she’d thought. She could usually hit the stationary targets, but not near the centre, and she knew muggle police officers could do a lot better with pistols. Her limited duels with Harry last year had been at closer quarters, and without formal training, her self-study had been haphazard. She also found that she didn’t have a great idea of what spells to cast in a duel. She knew quite a few, but the tactics and strategy of stringing them together wasn’t something she’d thought a lot about. She mostly just threw them randomly (and she worried about herself a little when she started setting the targets on fire).

Even with her prior experience, she was painfully aware of her shortcomings compared with what she’d read about Aurors and professional duellists. And even if she couldn’t reach that level, wasn’t _this_ what she was supposed to be learning in class? How to defend herself against an experienced wizard who meant her harm?

No, this would not do.

* * *

Harry stumbled into the Common Room at a quarter past one, weary, bleary-eyed, and cradling his right hand, which was wrapped in a blood-stained scarf. He felt dead on his feet. He already hadn’t got much sleep last night because O.W.L.-year students apparently didn’t get the luxury of sleeping in the night after Astronomy Class. He saw that Ginny, Ron, and Hermione had all waited up for him. Ginny jumped up and ran to him when she saw the state he was in.

“Harry! You finally got out!” she said. “I can’t believe she kept you this late again. There ought to be a rule.” She wrapped her arms around his chest, careful to avoid his injured hand, and kissed him, but he barely returned it. She frowned, but led him to sofa so he could sit.

“I got you some more murtlap essence,” Hermione said, pushing a bowl of sickly yellow fluid towards him. Ginny helped him unwrap his hand. She hissed when she saw blood oozing from the gashes and immediately staining the bowl orange.

“I swear, the next time I see Percy…” she growled. “If I can’t hex Umbridge, I can definitely hex him.”

“Uh huh,” Harry nodded absently.

Hermione sighed when she saw the condition of her friend: “You can’t keep doing this, Harry. It’s getting harder for me to justify taking out murtlap essence. If you get any more detentions, you’ll have to go to Madam Pomfrey directly.”

“And get her in trouble, too?” he grumbled.

Ron shook his head from where he sat, leaning across the back of a chair. “They can’t stop Madam Pomfrey from helping you, mate,” he said. “Healer’s Oath. She might not be able to stop Umbridge, but Umbridge can’t do anything to her, either.”

“I’m more worried about that hand,” Ginny said. “Any more of this, and you’ll have to go to Madam Pomfrey to get it healed properly anyway.”

“Will you all cut it out?!” Harry yelled. He bolted to his feet and pushed Ginny aside. “I’m sick of everyone trying to give me advice when you all know there’s not a damn thing anyone can _do_ about it.”

His three friends sat in stunned silence. Ron’s and Hermione’s eyebrows were both raised, and Ginny looked like she wasn’t sure whether to be sad or angry. However, she was the first to collect herself; she slowly stood up behind him and started rubbing his shoulders. He slumped, and, with a little bit of prodding, she convinced him to sit back on the sofa and lean against her.

“You look exhausted, Harry,” she said soothingly. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to give you a hard time. I know you’ve already got that in spades…You know, you’ve been snapping at us a lot this year—and I mean more than usual. I’ve known enough teenage boys to know.”

“I know…I’m sorry Ginny. It’s like I can’t help it,” he muttered. “Everything makes me so angry lately. It’s all so unfair, and worse, it’s gonna get people killed…I just wish there was something we could do about it.”

Hermione considered the idea that had been brooding in her mind all day. “Maybe there is.”

Harry looked up. “What?”

“Maybe there _is_ something we can do.”

Now, Ron and Ginny stared at her, too. “What are you on about?” Ron said.

“Doing something about Umbridge.”

Ron perked up. “Really? What’re you thinking? Poison, or feeding her to something mad and hairy that Hagrid dragged in from the For—ow!”

Hermione whacked him in the back of the head. “I didn’t mean _that,_ Ronald,” she said. “I was thinking maybe we could teach ourselves.”

“What?” Harry said.

“The three of us. You know, like a study group. You can come, too, Ginny, although it’s not really your curriculum.”

Harry shook his head: “Umbridge won’t go along with that. Sirius said she thinks Dumbledore’s building an army. If she finds out we’re practising Defence spells—”

“Then we’ll have to make sure she doesn’t find out. We can use the Room of Requirement and—”

“Come off it,” Ron said. “We’re already behind on our homework. You want us to do more, now?”

“This is about a lot more than homework, Ron. It’s about making sure we can defend ourselves. I was practising in the Room of Requirement today, and I realised how far I still have to go. Harry, you and I duelled a few times last year, but were you really ready to face Voldemort?”

“Face Voldemort?” he said incredulously. “Have you gone barmy? You don’t get _that_ out of a book! You don’t get it from a class! Don’t you remember what it was like when we fought the basilisk, or the dementors? When there’s nothing between you and dying but your own wits, and you can’t remember half of what you learnt in class? When you have to try to think straight when you’re about a second from dying or watching your friends torn limb from limb?”

He trailed off, seeing his friends actually weren’t ignoring his words, like he’d thought. But Hermione stepped forward and tried again. “I _do_ remember, Harry,” she said. “When those dementors attacked us, it was the most terrifying moment of my life. All four of us were there, remember? We know what it’s like, at least a little. But I also remember drilling myself day after day for _months_ to learn the Patronus Charm. And you did the same thing, and it _worked_. And in fact, if that happened now, we could probably hold out long enough to get to shelter. I think if we work together, and find some _good_ books—books written by Aurors or war veterans or something—we can teach ourselves properly. And we can definitely teach ourselves better than Umbridge ever will. Just think about it, please?”

Hermione went up to bed, but both Weasleys seemed to take her side. “You know, I think that could work,” Ron said. “Plus, if we’re teaching the class, we wouldn’t have to give ourselves homework.”

Harry threw a cushion at him.

“Oi! I’m going to bed. You coming?”

“In a minute.”

Ron went upstairs, and Harry examined his hand, dripping with murtlap essence. It was still bleeding a little. He reflected that if things were going to keep getting worse, he really ought to get a first aid kit. Maybe he could buy one when they had a Hogsmeade visit. Right now, all he could do to keep from getting bloodstains on his bed was to wrap it in tissues and maybe wear a glove.

He looked and saw Ginny watching him worriedly. “I’m guessing you’re all for this idea, too?” he asked.

Ginny placed her hand on his shoulder again: “I think it’d be nice to actually learn some defence this year.”

Harry suppressed a groan and started to turn away, but Ginny gripped his shoulder harder and stopped him. “Harry, I hate that you’re involved in all of this,” she said. “Umbridge, You-Know-Who, everything. I wish you didn’t have to worry about it, but if You-Know-Who isn’t gonna leave you alone…isn’t gonna leave _us_ alone…we need to do more to be ready. Please think about it, okay?”

“Alright, I will,” Harry promised. Ginny smiled and kissed him briefly before going up to bed herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Educational Decrees so far:  
> #21: Forbids students from going to school overseas.  
> #22: Allows the Ministry to fill vacant teaching positions at Hogwarts.  
> #23: Appoints Umbridge as High Inquisitor.  
> #24: Gives Umbridge supreme authority over punishments.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The limit of the sequence of Harry Potter is JK Rowling.
> 
> Now that we’re getting to the DA starting up, I wanted to thank all of the reviewers who have helped me put together an outline for fifth year that is much better than the one I originally planned. Special thanks to Belial666, Brian1972, Hyaroo, Kairan1979, and StevenG for their advice.
> 
> There were a lot of comments on my accreditation idea, and the Educational Decrees. No, Decree #23 doesn’t name Umbridge specifically, but it’s worded in complicated legalese that basically allows the Ministry to appoint whomever they want as High Inquisitor and give her whatever powers they want. Decree #21 doesn’t directly forbid students from going overseas. It just tightens the accreditation standards in a way that only Hogwarts and a few approved tutors can meet them. I was writing in shorthand when I listed the Decrees to show their most important effects.
> 
> And special thanks to Moon-sora, who has begun putting up a translation of The Arithmancer in Slovak. If you’re interested, you can find it at sanguis(dot)cz, under the user name Stellar.

“What is your qualification in Defence, Professor?”

Dolores Umbridge’s sickly smile faltered for a moment at Hermione’s words. With her newfound knowledge of how the school worked, Hermione’s new line of attack was to try to fight Umbridge at her own game by using the rules against her. Hermione had no illusions that she’d win, but it should at least help expose the woman’s fraud.

“Are you questioning my teaching skills, Miss Granger,” Umbridge asked dangerously.

“Not at all, ma’am. I didn’t mean to imply anything. I just thought that, given your concern about the quality of our previous instructors, we could all be more assured if you were upfront about your own qualifications. I believe the Ministry’s accreditation standards require all teachers to have at least an Outstanding N.E.W.T. in their subject.” (One more reason they couldn’t get rid of Binns, too, unfortunately.)

Umbridge glared at Hermione, and she knew the woman was onto her. “I assure you that I am certified fully qualified to teach the new curriculum,” she said curtly.

Hermione noted that she didn’t just come out and say she had a sufficient N.E.W.T. score, and therefore, she probably didn’t, not that it mattered with her “theory-based” curriculum. She decided to risk another play, however: “Who wrote the new curriculum, anyway, Professor? Was it the Wizarding Examinations Authority?”

“Why should that matter, Miss Granger?” Umbridge said, looking even sourer.

“I was just curious, ma’am. It seems strange that the new Defence curriculum removes the practical spellcasting component when the Charms and Transfiguration curricula, which were written by the WEA and have been praised for many years, direct that it should be a large share of classwork.”

“Hermione, what’re you doing?” Ron hissed from behind her, but she ignored him.

“You do not understand what you’re talking about,” Umbridge snapped. “Five points from Gryffindor for your continued interruptions. A girl who co-opted her supposed greatest achievement from a respected scholarly family ought to be more careful with her words.”

“What?” several people gasped.

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me, Professor, are you referring to my work on Gamp’s Law?” she said, struggling to maintain her smile.

“ _Your_ work?” Umbridge giggled inappropriately. “I don’t know who you think you’re fooling, girl. A fourth-year muggle-born girl with little formal training, a mediocre arithmancer who couldn’t get a better job than teaching, and the pureblood daughter of the most famous spellcrafting family in Britain, who’s been steeped in magical theory from an early age? I think we all know who did the _real_ work on that paper.” Her wicked smile had returned. Several of the Ravenclaws in the class gasped softly to hear the insult at one of their favoured professors.

“That paper was a collaboration of—”

“You are out of turn, Miss Granger. Another five points.”

Hermione had to literally bite her tongue to force her retort down, and she clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white. She heard Harry start to speak beside her, but she shot him a glare that said, _Don_ _’t you dare!_ His detentions were finally done again, and she wasn’t about to let him go for a third round, no matter what Umbridge said about her. Fortunately, though he was fuming, he held his tongue as well. But still, insulting her blood status, her favourite teacher, and her arithmancy skills in one go? That one hurt.

* * *

Hermione’s birthday passed with little comment, and frankly, she was too focused on everything going on at school to care. Her “sweet sixteen” didn’t feel like that big a deal under present circumstances, although she did get a very nice kiss—or several—from George. Harry’s general bad mood didn’t improve much by Wednesday, and it didn’t much surprise Hermione when Umbridge inspected their Potions class that day. “How does that women find time to teach her own classes?” she whispered to Parvati, but she didn’t have an answer. Of course, being a Death Eater, Professor Snape wasn’t one to be intimidated by the likes of Dolores Umbridge.

Harry was alarmingly distracted trying to listen in on the byplay between Snape and Umbridge, and Hermione had to stop him from blowing up his potion three times, but the only interesting thing that happened was that Umbridge tried to get under Snape’s skin about him being turned down for the Defence post every year.

But Umbridge’s inspection gave Hermione another opportunity to needle her. At this point, some might have considered it foolhardy, but she had one more idea to try, and she was too stubborn to back down until she had exhausted all her jibes.

“Excuse me, Professor Umbridge?” she said as Snape was grading the potions. Fortunately, Snape, for the moment, didn’t interfere.

Umbridge’s nostrils flared at her, but she replied sweetly, “Yes, can I help you, Miss Granger?”

“Since you’re inspecting all the classes, if I had complaints against some of the teachers, would I be able to submit them to you somewhere?”

“Complaints?” she said, taken aback. “And just whom might you have complaints against?”

“Oh, nothing specific at the moment. But I might want to bring some to you later on. Some of the older students and I compiled a list of them on the entire staff the year before last—”

“Which were dealt with at the time,” Snape interrupted, swooping over to them. Umbridge eyed the two of them, and Hermione could see she was putting two and two together. About half the class had stopped their exit to listen. Good.

“Of course, being away for a year, I wasn’t sure what had been done to address them, Professor.” Hermione said.

Umbridge eyed her curiously. Hermione knew she’d put the woman in a bind, her dislike of Hermione set against her desire to dig up dirt on the staff. “ _All_ of the teachers, Miss Granger?”

“Yes, ma’am. We had concerns about the teaching at this school, just like the Ministry did, and we wanted to be fair and thorough about it.”

“And what sort of complaints did you make?”

“I wouldn’t want to try to repeat such allegations purely from memory, but Professor McGonagall should still have the list, if you’re interested. Incidentally, Professor, while we’re on the subject of evaluating teachers, if you’re inspecting all the classes, who inspects you?”

Snape raised an eyebrow at Hermione. Umbridge looked offended. “ _Excuse_ me, Miss Granger? Are you insinuating that I am not qualified for my post _again_? I believe we already addressed this matter in class.”

“I know we did, ma’am. I just thought that if you wanted to appear truly fair and impartial to the public, if _all_ of the teachers were being inspected, you should have the same assessment done, and it would be a conflict of interest to inspect yourself, wouldn’t it?”

Umbridge’s face went through what Hermione suspected was a flurry of emotions, mostly visible through twitches. This time, instead of trying to antagonise her outright, Hermione had tried to get under her skin by forcing her to agree with her logic. However, she quickly formulated a come-back: “The Minister is personally seeing to the quality of my work, Miss Granger, so you need not worry on my account. Professor Snape, you will receive the results of your inspection within two weeks.”

She walked out of the room with her nose in the air. Everyone else left the classroom, and Hermione sighed and turned to go. She had expected this, but it didn’t make it any less disappointing. She could only hope that she’d set the rumour mill going. But before she could leave, Snape called out, “Granger!” Hermione stopped. The rest of the class had gone, except for Harry and Ron, who remained in the doorway. Snape shot them a sharp look and said, “Go on.” They vanished from sight, although Hermione was sure they were listening just outside the door.

Snape gave her a harsh stare and said, “Miss Granger, do you think it is easy serving two masters?”

“‘Either he will hate the one, and love the other; or else he will hold to the one, and despise the other,’” she quoted.

“Very apt, but I know you know precisely _why_ I asked that question,” he said, continuing to glare at her.

Hermione lowered her gaze a little, and said, “I’m sure it’s very difficult, sir.” She was vaguely surprised he had recognised the Bible quote.

“Yes. Extremely,” Snape said. “And my presence at this school is desired by _both_ of them, as you can probably guess with that insufferable intellect of yours. If you do anything to jeopardise that arrangement, Miss Granger, the consequences will be as severe as it is within my power to make them…and my resources are substantial.”

Hermione shivered. She had _definitely_ taken this a step too far. “Yes, Professor. I understand, Professor,” she said shakily, and she high-tailed it out of the room as fast as she could.

* * *

“The nerve of that Snape!” Ron fumed at lunch. “Everyone knows he’s the worst teacher in school! You’re just trying to help!”

“He oughta want Umbridge gone as much as we do,” Ginny said. She’d been equally furious when Harry and Ron told her. “You know, if he’s _really_ on our side.”

“What’s all this about?” George said, sitting down beside her. Fred wedge himself in next to Ron, much to Ron’s dismay.

“Snape threatened Hermione,” Ron said.

_“What?!”_

“Ron! It wasn’t really like _that_ , George,” she pleaded with her boyfriend.

“He _did_ say there would be severe consequences if you got him fired,” Harry pointed out.

“Harry! You’re not helping!” she hissed. “I _may_ have brought up the complaints I made against Professor Snape in third year with Umbridge…” she said, picking at her food.

“And…?” George said.

Was she really that easy for him to read? She sighed: “In front of him.”

Fred whistled loudly. “I think we’ve been a bad influence on her, George,” he said. “That’s gutsy even by our standards.”

“I didn’t mention him by name!” she protested. “I just mentioned the complaints to Umbridge, and…and Snape said there would be severe consequences if I got him fired.” She heard George hiss. “And don’t _you_ do something stupid.”

“Are you sure? We could prank him, you know.”

“George, in six years, have you _ever_ pulled one over on Snape?”

“Well…” George and Fred said in unison.

“No, right? I’ve been through enough with Harry. I don’t need you two getting in trouble, too.”

“Hmm…she _is_ right, Fred,” George admitted.

“Even with the Map,” Fred agreed.

“I swear, it’s like that man can read minds.”

“It doesn’t matter anyway,” Hermione said. “I’m out of ways to try to deal with Umbridge to her face. We’re not gonna do more than chip away at her by using her own rules against her. And unfortunately, we’ll still have to live with Snape as long as Dumbledore needs him.”

“We’ve gotta do something, though,” George insisted. “You can’t let Umbridge walk all over you like that.”

She suspected he would have put his arm around her if it weren’t for Umbridge’s crusade against PDA. “You can be very sweet George—when you want to be,” she teased, “but I can take care of myself.”

“It’s still no good,” Ginny said. “There’s gotta be some way to deal with her.”

“Well…” Harry said hesitantly.

“Yes?” she said.

“There’s still Hermione’s _other_ idea.”

“What other idea?” George and Fred said together.

“Not here,” Hermione whispered, sending a significant glance to the High Table. “I’ll explain it tonight.”

* * *

“Teach ourselves Defence?” the Twins said with interest. The six of them had met in Harry’s and Ron’s dorm room for more privacy, where Hermione told them her idea.

“Well, technically, I was just thinking me, Harry, Ron, and maybe Ginny—” Hermione clarified.

“Why not us?” they replied at once.

“I didn’t mean to exclude you. It’s just that you’re two years ahead of us.”

“Yeah, but we’ve only had two decent teachers in six years,” said Fred.

“And one of them was secretly an evil maniac,” George added.

“Yes, I suppose so. I wouldn’t mind if you joined us, myself, but I wanted to make sure we could be on the same page, and I also wasn’t sure how Harry would feel about more people.”

Everyone turned and looked at Harry. He didn’t look happy to have all the eyes on him. “What?” he said.

“Have you thought about the idea, Harry?” Hermione asked.

He shrugged his shoulders: “A bit. At first, I thought it was completely mad, but then…”

“Then what?”

“Well, Ginny can be pretty persuasive.” Ginny put one arm around him and grinned.

“Ew!” Ron said. “We’re right here, you know.”

“Oh, shut up, Ron,” she shot back.

“It wasn’t just that, though,” Harry protested. “I thought about it some more, and I couldn’t help, you know, planning a little. And then the way Umbridge went off on you, I wanted to do _something_ , and…and Sirius and Remus thought it was a good idea.”

“They did?” Hermione said, unsure what to think. It was great that his guardian was standing by him, but Sirius wasn’t the most responsible sort. On the other hand, Remus usually was.

“Oi, they didn’t tell Mum, did they?” asked Fred.

“They didn’t mention it,” Harry said.

“So you said you had some ideas?” Hermione said.

“Uh huh. Remus said he could send me his upper year course books and class notes from when he taught, and we could pick out the most practical parts since it’s about actually defending ourselves and not passing exams. And I thought we could start by drilling basic stuff we know for sure we’ll need, like disarming and stuff. That’ll work even though we’re in different years.”

“Disarming?” Ron said, “seems a bit simple don’t you think?”

“It still helped me against Voldemort. And Hermione said she needed to work on her aim.”

“That’s true,” she said. “Are you up for it with six of us?”

“I guess so. Not that much different from four.”

“So how do we wanna do this?” George asked.

Hermione smiled at them. “I was thinking we should use the Room of Requirement. We’ll need to keep this from Umbridge, of course. She definitely won’t appreciate it. We have the Maps to track her, though, so we can avoid her. Maybe Saturday night?”

Harry still looked a little bit surly about the whole thing, but he sighed and said, “Yeah, I guess we might as well. We need to do _something_ this year.”

* * *

With their plans set, Hermione felt a little better. She felt more relaxed on Thursday and went down to the library early so she could sit in silence and consider the way forward while she waited for Daphne and Tracey to arrive.

She still had an awful lot to do.

She normally had little trouble keeping track of all of her various projects in her head (though she took copious written notes whenever it was applicable). She had a pretty good memory, after all. But between overlapping arithmancy projects at multiple levels of study, several things she wanted or needed to do to prepare for the coming conflict, and a few other fun things she wanted to work on, it was starting to get unwieldy. So when she looked over her sheaf of personal notes, Hermione decided she to do one of those big reorganisations she felt an itch to do every once in a while—something to keep track of everything better. For starters, she put a new piece of parchment in front to list her projects. Should they be categorised? She soon decided they should, and two obvious categories presented themselves. She divided the parchment in half, and the left half, she labelled _War Effort_ , while the right half, she labelled _Academic Research_.

Then, she looked at the page for a minute. No, that wouldn’t do. If someone saw that written there, she’d be in trouble. She applied the same charm she’d got from the Marauder’s Map and spent several minutes making the entire page look like indecipherable arithmancy notes to anyone who didn’t have the password.

Now, for the actual lists. In the war effort column, she wrote, _Research magical weapons_ , _Invent curses_ , and _Defence practice_ , and, after another moment’s consideration, she added a bullet point under _Defence practice_ and wrote _Left-handed casting_.

Next, came her academic research. She was being a bit loose with her definition here; it was true. That’s what allowed her to write _Magical metallurgy_ alongside _Real analysis paper_. Her main project, of course, was to put together a new scholarly paper from her real analysis studies that would contribute to her mastery. She wasn’t quite sure where she was going with that, but she had a few ideas written down on the pages she’d already devoted to Arithmancy: fractal geometry, Fourier series, convergence of sequences of functions—that sort of thing. She also needed to be more careful now that she was getting into cutting-edge work that she didn’t publish anything potentially useful to the enemy. It wasn’t as confining as it sounded. Many particular formulae were non-obvious and would take someone extremely skilled to replicate even if she published the basic techniques.

She started to write down _Gamp_ _’s Law: antimatter_ , but she stopped. Her ultimate project since she got deep into linear algebra last year _was_ proving that it was impossible to transfigure antimatter. It was the worry that possibly it _wasn_ _’t_ that had led her to study Gamp’s Law in the first place. But that project had needed months of hard work and a lot of help just to prove that it was impossible to transfigure radioactive isotopes. To tackle antimatter would take even more work to understand enough quantum mechanics to even start looking for a solution. And it wasn’t like she was about to stumble on a way to do it by accident in the unlikely event it _was_ possible (probably), so it really wasn’t much of a priority. Thus, after some thought, she drew a third section at the bottom of the parchment and labelled it _Long-Term Projects_.

Her other “academic” project (though it didn’t exactly fit in anywhere) was the Mathemagician’s Map. Her improved version of the Marauder’s Map was still unfinished, and she had a to-do list in her notes for that project: adding areas of the castle that currently didn’t show up, adding a user manual, making it automatically open to the floor you were on, adding a text interface, and then there was that business with the ghosts.

Hermione had noticed that most of the ghosts in the castle showed up by their real names rather than their ubiquitous nicknames on both Maps: Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington (Nearly-Headless Nick), Martin Beckett (the Fat Friar), Robin Greengrass (the Black Knight), Myrtle Warren (Moaning Myrtle), and so on. But there were two ghosts who did not show up as their real names. The Bloody Baron was named as _Bloody Baron_ , and the Grey Lady was named as _Grey Lady_ , and she couldn’t account for that. Presumably, they were keyed into the wards that way, but how or why, she couldn’t guess. If she could find the time, perhaps she could go down and search the anchor stones for those names, since they presumably had to be carved into the rock somewhere.

“Afternoon, Granger,” a voice sounded.

“Ahh!” She snapped her notes shut worriedly before she realised what was happening. “Oh, it’s you two. Hello, Greengrass, Davis.”

“Working hard?” Greengrass asked, obviously angling for information.

“Um, right. Just my, uh, advanced arithmancy.”

“Really?”

She quickly showed them her indecipherable cover page and they bought her story at once.

“Alright, so…porlocks?” Hermione asked as they sat down.

The two Slytherin girls spent the next half hour with her revising the characteristics of the odd horse guardians and their subtle relationships with centaurs, winged horses, nogtails, and mooncalves. They didn’t correspond to any creature in muggle folklore than Hermione had ever heard of, which surprised her, since few magical creatures were complete unknowns to the medieval bestiaries. But when she mentioned this, Greengrass only said, “Well, you can’t expect muggles to get them all right,” and moved on.

Davis, she noticed, seemed a little tenser and more distant than usual today. Hermione didn’t pry, but she got an answer for free when they switched subjects.

“So, anything you wanted to go over with Arithmancy?” she asked.

Greengrass nodded noncommittally and took out her Arithmancy notes while Davis muttered something that Hermione couldn’t make out, but Greengrass replied, “Tracey, calm down, it’s not that bad.”

“Trouble?” Hermione ventured.

“Not with Arithmancy, Granger,” Greengrass said quickly.

“How’re your Defence marks?” Davis asked.

“Tracey,” Greengrass hissed. Hermione could guess this was one of those things that they preferred to keep in Slytherin, but in response to her continued stares, Greengrass sighed and said, “Tracey seems to be under the impression that she’s going to flunk her O.W.L.”

“And you’re not, Daphne?” she said. “You have to sit through the same awful class I do. Honestly, all theory? No practical work?” Davis was complaining as much to Hermione as to her friend, now. “And it’s not like Umbridge will sit by if we try to do it on our own.”

“I know,” Hermione agreed. She coloured a little when she thought of how she was sidestepping that rule. “She isn’t even trying. I thought I’d seen some bad teachers before, but Umbridge takes the cake.”

“Yeah, but that’s politics,” Greengrass said. “You can always practice at home over holidays, Tracey.”

“Maybe _you_ can, Daphne. You know how uptight my mum is about the underage magic thing.”

“So come to my place. Better wards, anyway.”

Hermione’s eyebrows shot up. She’d almost missed it, but why would they care what the strength of her house’s wards? Did they actually know something? With as connected as Greengrass’s family was, she probably had plenty of inside information. And as for why they would care, well, Davis _was_ a half-blood, and they weren’t in with the “popular” crowd in Slytherin. But that was all conjecture, and Hermione didn’t think it would be civil to press the issue. On the other hand, getting a read on Slytherin in general could be valuable. “So, no love for Umbridge in Slytherin, either?” she tried.

“Well, I can’t speak for Malfoy’s crowd,” Greengrass said. “ _They_ look like they get on swimmingly with her.”

“Hmm…” Hermione had another brainwave and decided to take a chance with a minor bit of her own inside information: “Well, if you believe the rumour about her being here to get rid of Dumbledore, then they want the same thing, don’t they?”

Greengrass and Davis both regarded her with interest. Hermione hoped she was learning to navigate these circles properly. Of course, she had no doubt that they knew her drop of information was deliberate. “So that’s what they’re saying in Gryffindor?” Greengrass asked.

Hermione saw the ploy coming easily and answered, “That’s what they’re saying a lot of places. Why? Isn’t that what they’re saying in Slytherin? I should have thought it was obvious if you read the _Prophet_.”

“Oh, it’s obvious enough,” she said idly. She paused and thought for a moment. “Good to see you know what’s what around here.”

“Actually, Malfoy’s been bragging about it in the Common Room,” Davis said.

“Tracey!”

“What?”

“Whatever happened to subtlety?”

“Well, it’s not like Malfoy even had any,” Hermione jumped in, and Davis snorted.

“Malfoy is a prat. There, I said it,” Greengrass snapped. “But don’t you underestimate him.” She looked back at her best friend: “Either of you.”

* * *

Saturday promised to be a busy day. Tonight would be the first meeting of their secret little Defence study group, and Hermione felt oddly eager. It felt exciting, breaking the rules. Okay, so it wasn’t technically against the rules—yet. And she’d broken more than her share of rules before. But against Umbridge, it felt like she had a real cause this time. She was becoming quite the little rebel, wasn’t she? She blamed George.

Harry, however, was not looking eager. In fact, he looked listless and had dark circles around his eyes, despite having the opportunity for a lie-in. She of course asked him if he was alright as they went down to breakfast.

“Yeah…Just didn’t sleep well,” he mumbled.

“Bad dreams?” Ginny asked.

He nodded.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Harry opened his mouth and looked about to brush her off, but he thought better of it and said softly, “It’s weird. It’s not like it’s even that bad, but I always wake up in a cold sweat afterwards.”

“You’ve had it before?” Hermione asked.

“Uh huh. I’ve been having the same dream since around the dementor attack. I’m walking down this dark corridor, and I’m trying to get to this big locked door. I know I need to get through it. It’s really important that I get through it, but I never can. I always wake up first.”

“That’s all?” Ron said.

“I didn’t say it made sense!” he snapped. “It still keeps me up at night, and no, I don’t know why. It just does.”

“It’s okay, Harry,” Hermione tried to assure him. “Just…try to take it easy today, alright?” She lowered her voice to a whisper: “At least you’ll get a chance to fire off some hexes tonight, right?”

“Yeah, I guess there’s that.”

* * *

“So, instead of a sequence of numbers _as_ a function, this is a sequence _of_ functions?” Septima asked.

“That’s right,” Hermione said. “It’s pretty simple—defined in nearly the same way. The sequence might be as simple as “function number _n_ of _x_ equals _n_ times _x_ ,” and the sequence might converge or it might not. And if you take the sum of the sequence, you get a series, and you’ve already done some work with those: power series and Fourier series.”

“But _that_ would imply that many spells that are constructed as truncations of power series are actually part of an infinite family of spells that correspond to different elements in the sequence.”

“Yes, now you’re getting it,” Hermione said happily. “But that’s not really that radical, is it? I mean, everyone knows you can truncate the power series wherever you want.”

“Yes, but they don’t normally construct all of the possible spells as a family. And if you could find patterns going down the power series, maybe you could find higher-order spells that are degenerate in some way you could actually cast them.”

“Hmm…” She bit her lip in thought. “I suppose it’s possible. I’m more interested in things like the Weierstrass function that don’t have the nice, smooth behaviour of the functions that usually go into spells. I mean, who knows what new applications that could open up?”

“That’s a very speculative project, though,” Septima suggested. “I know you want to continue these studies, but something a little more concrete like our work on Gamp’s Law would be better for your masterwork.”

“Well, I’m still looking at different projects, of course. But if I’m going to take two or three years on this, I have time to explore a little.” Actually, her antimatter proof might work nicely as a two or three year project, but since most wizards didn’t even know what antimatter _was_ , that might not be the best choice, either.

Septima sighed: “Two or three years.”

“I know, things don’t look so certain at the moment,” Hermione said with a frown. “I don’t know that I’d worry too much about you, though. You’re a pureblood and a former Slytherin, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

“Hermione, don’t you remember your first year here? I defied You-Know-Who to his face—well, to Quirrell’s face, but…Oh, Merlin, I still can’t believe I did that!”

“Oh, no. I’m sorry, Septima, I hadn’t thought of that. But you know you have allies here. Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall will back you if it comes to it, and I’m sure there are others—Hagrid, when he comes back—”

“Whatever happened to Hagrid, anyway?” Septima said suddenly, changing the subject. “Where did he go?”

“I don’t know for sure, but I—oops,” she caught herself too late. “Er…why did you think I knew something?”

“You hear rumours on the staff here, too, Hermione. I don’t know much about your summer, but I know you had contact with Professors Dumbledore and McGonagall.”

“Oh…well…The giants, I think,” she whispered.

“Giants? Why would we want to deal with those brutes?”

Hermione was taken aback. Sometimes she could forget about the other prejudices that were far more prevalent amongst wizards than the ones about blood status. “Well, I don’t know if they’re ‘brutes,’” she bristled, “but it’s better than having Voldemort court them unopposed, isn’t it?”

Septima still flinched at the name. “I suppose when you put it that way…” she admitted, rubbing her forehead. “It’s never easy, is it? My apologies. I shouldn’t be laying my worries on you.”

“It’s alright. I think there’s plenty to go around.”

“Mm hmm.” She took a sip of tea. “I really worry about Georgina. She’s only twelve, and she doesn’t deserve what’s coming. She barely even knows. And the worst part is, she’s not learning to defend herself. Umbridge’s class is worse than useless. I try to help her on the side, but even I have to do it in secret. There’s only so much I can do.”

“I know how you feel,” Hermione agreed. “Trying to get myself and my friends some semblance of prepared…well, it’s hard,” she finished, not trusting herself to say more. The plight of Georgina and the other younger students gave her pause, though. If it was bad for the upper years, who’d had decent teachers the last two years, it would be even worse for the first and second year. She’d have to think about it.

* * *

At eight o’clock that night, Hermione paced slowly back and forth past the blank wall that concealed the Room of Requirement. She’d offered Harry the option of setting the room, but he deferred on the grounds that it was her idea. She thought a little more carefully about how she wanted the Room arranged this time. _We need a place to learn Defence_ , she thought. _We need a place to learn to defend ourselves. We need a place to teach ourselves properly._

An ornate door appeared in the wall, and the six of them filed inside.

The Room was big for a group of six, but that was because it had several sections to it. There was a reading corner with shelves full of Defence textbooks and lost library books from generations of former students—probably some from before Voldemort cursed the job. She added the books Remus had sent to them. There were large cushions for seats and for learning the Stunning Spell. Another set of shelves held artifacts delivered up by the Room like Sneakoscopes and Probity Probes. Interesting that they’d be included: Hermione hadn’t thought of them, but perhaps the Room thought they were part of “teaching themselves properly.” At the far end of the Room were some more of the paper targets Hermione had destroyed before, but now enchanted to move around on stands, and, while still man-shaped, they were now marked with the Death Eaters’ skull masks.

Fred and George both whistled when they saw the Room, and Ron and Ginny looked around in awe. Harry appeared pleasantly surprised by her mental handiwork, and he scanned the Room appreciatively.

“A shooting gallery?” he asked, pointing out the targets.

“Yes. I thought if it works for police—well, American police, mostly—it could be useful. I know I need to work on my aim, and this’ll help us hit things that are…Death Eater-sized, you know?”

Harry chuckled a little. “The masks are a nice touch,” he said.

“This is bloody brilliant!” Ron exclaimed.

“I’ll say,” Ginny agreed. “This’ll be great. Lots of room to practice spells and no one to stop us.”

“And here I thought this room was only good for snogging,” George quipped.

“ _George—_!” Hermione started, but he cut her off with a kiss. Fred wolf-whistled, but he ignored him.

“So, my brilliant girlfriend, where do we start?”

“Well, I think the planning is more Harry’s department.”

All eyes turned to Harry. He looked dazed for a moment, then glared at her briefly, but he went ahead anyway. “Er…so, I guess the first thing is to practice the Disarming Charm, like I said before. Do it enough that we can get the wand movements right and fast every time and so we can actually hit each other with it. What do you think?”

“Sounds good to me,” Ron said with a grin. “Should we use the targets or just hex each other?”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” Ginny cried, and a bolt of red light flew at Ron’s face. His wand went spinning into her hand.

“Oi!” he yelled.

“Wow. That’s really good aim, Ginny,” Hermione complimented her.

“You don’t make reserve Chaser if you don’t have good aim,” she grinned.

“Not to mention her Bat-Bogey Hexes,” Fred pointed out.

“Alright, then, let’s pair up,” Harry said.

Three pairs of “duellists’ soon formed. Ginny faced off against Ron, Fred against George, and Hermione found herself facing Harry. “Well, this seems familiar,” she said, remembering her duels with him last year.

“Mm hmm,” Harry said. “Back up a few paces.”

“Huh?”

“I know we can hit each other at this distance. Voldemort and I were farther apart when…”

“Oh, right,” Hermione said, blushing a little. She took a few steps back. “Come to think of it, you and Malfoy were this far apart at Lockhart’s Duelling Club in second year, too. I guess ten paces should be standard. Maybe even twenty.”

“On three?” he asked. She nodded. “Okay, one…two…three!”

“ _Expelliarmus_!” they both yelled. Hermione’s spell whizzed by Harry’s right ear. Harry’s caught her in the left arm, which set her spinning as it tried to pull her second wand out of her sleeve. They all took it in turns from there, switching partners every few spells. They were pleased to see that everyone in their little group could at least cast the spell reliably. Harry and Ginny definitely had the best aim, but between Hermione consulting the books and Harry drawing on his experience, they were all able to make little adjustments to their wand motions to improve, and all of them could soon pretty reliably hit each other at ten paces.

“Alright, this is good,” Harry said after a while. Hermione could see he was starting to loosen up and get into the role. “But remember, in a real fight, your opponent won’t be standing still directly opposite you. So…let’s try it again, but this time, actually try not to get hit. Dodge, dive for cover, even run around the room if you want. There’s no rules in a real fight, you know.”

“This could get messy,” Fred said.

“I like it,” George replied.

It did get messy. Even with only six of them, it was chaos. They started running around, casting from behind cover, and Fred and George even tried to use Ron and Harry as human shields. Ginny pinned down Hermione behind a bookcase and tried to shoot all the books off the shelves to get a clear shot at her, scattering them all over the floor, something Hermione was not happy about. Before long, they lost track of whom they were supposed to be disarming and it turned into a free-for-all.

“Okay, stop, stop, _stop_!” Hermione yelled. The spells stopped flying, and she and Harry exchanged an understanding look.

“Okay, I think that might’ve been a little too complicated,” he admitted. “We should probably have tried just dodging first or something like that.”

“We should try different spells before long, too,” Hermione suggested. “The different wand motions might affect the aiming.”

“Good idea…hmm…let’s try something more like the duelling we did last year. We can use simple jinxes and stuff, and we can dodge, but we have to stay in the same general area.”

“Works for us,” the Twins said.

“Me, three,” Ginny said.

“Alright, then,” Ron said. “ _Flipendo_!”

Ginny, caught by surprise, was knocked off her feet. “Hey!” she yelled.

“Don’t get any warning in a real fight, do you?”

“Oh, it’s on!”

Another round of “duelling” and some discussion afterwards, and they had a better idea of how to move forward. There were too many spells to do all of them in depth, but they would definitely need to practice a few different ones to get good at this. By then, it was getting close to curfew, so they checked the Maps and slipped back to the Common Room.

“And this is why you need a practical component,” Hermione concluded when they were done.

“Yes, well, not like Umbridge cares,” Harry said darkly. “She doesn’t _want_ us to be able to fight.”

“So she’s an idiot, then,” said Ginny. “Even without You-Know-Who, there’s criminals and stuff.”

“No, not an idiot,” Hermione corrected. “She knows exactly what she’s doing. She just doesn’t care. It’s all politics.”

“Bloody politics,” Ron grumbled.

“Bloody politics,” Fred and George agreed.

“I thought you made a pretty good teacher, Harry,” Hermoine tried to lighten the mood.

Harry looked like he wanted to be annoyed, but she could tell he had enjoyed himself back there. Still, he said, “You did as much as I did, though.”

“Maybe, but I think you’re more of a natural leader. I can organise and coordinate, but you’re the one who really took charge by the end.”

Harry just shrugged his shoulders.

“This was fun,” Ron said brightly. “Same time next week, then?”

“Works for me,” Hermione said.

* * *

And that would have been that, except things never quite went so smoothly at Hogwarts. It was only two days before Harry came to Hermione with a sheepish look on his face. Hermione immediately got a bad feeling about it.

“Harry, what’s wrong?” she said. “You didn’t get more detention, did you?”

“No! Why is that the first thing you thought of?”

“Sorry.”

“Look, I don’t really think it’s that big a deal, but we might have a bit of a problem,” he said.

“What is it?”

“Well…Ron and I _might_ have mentioned our Defence study group in front of the other guys in our dorm.”

Hermione smacked her forehead: “Augh! Harry! What happened to being discreet?”

“I’m sorry! Ron brought it up, and we tried to throw them off, but they wouldn’t let it go, so we had to explain…and didn’t tell them when or where we were having it, but…”

“They didn’t tell, did they?”

“No. Ron told Seamus to keep his mouth shut or else. But…”

“Harry?” she asked with a hint of warning.

“Neville and Dean asked if they could join us.”

Doubtless to Harry’s surprise, Hermione grew calmer upon hearing that. “Well,” she said cautiously, “I’ve been thinking, were _are_ talking about protecting ourselves from Voldemort. It’d only be fair if we offer to teach other people who want to learn it.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up: “Are you serious? It’s one thing with us. We were all at Headquarters and stuff. We know what we’re up against. None of them do.”

“But the exercises we did on Saturday would work for most anyone, wouldn’t they? I didn’t mean right away, anyway. I’d thought about it, but I was concerned about keeping it under wraps, and I wanted us to get settled in and know what we were doing before we worked out how to bring in more people.”

“Well, if it’s not too many…” Harry conceded. “Not like many people would want to learn from a nutter like me. Although if you’re a teacher, too…”

“I think you might be surprised either way, but we can cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“So what do we do about Neville and Dean?”

“Ask George, Fred, and Ginny if they’re alright with it, and then invite them to come Saturday night. And in the meantime, tell _everybody_ not to tell anyone else.”

“Got it.”

* * *

But if Hermione thought that would be the end of it, she would be sorely disappointed, as one of her own roommates approached her that night.

“Hermione, could I talk to you for a minute,” Sally-Anne said in a small voice. She looked nervous. Hermione hadn’t spoken with her much since that first night when she’d cautiously backed Harry. She looked more fearful now, with a worn-down look in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.

“Of course, Sally-Anne,” Hermione said with concern. “How are you doing?”

“I’ve…I’ve been getting by,” she said. “I just wanted to ask you…I heard that you’re organising secret Defence practice,” she blurted.

“Oh…” Hermione groaned, “where did you hear that?”

Sally-Anne flinched. “From Dean,” she said.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, I’ve been talking to him more this year. He’s muggle-born—well, he thinks his dad was a wizard, but—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. You haven’t told anyone else, have you?”

“No. I…I just wanted to ask if I could join you.”

Hermione suppressed another groan. “Any particular reason?” she asked.

“Hermione, we’re both muggle-born. _You_ know we need to protect ourselves, the way things are. I wanted to talk to you before, really. I want to learn, and Umbridge never teaches us anything, and Lily’s…Lily’s still being a stubborn bitch, and you’re always so busy—”

“Sally-Anne, please.” Hermione hugged her. She could feel the tension in her muscles: she could recognise it from all the times she’d hugged Harry. Her roommate was really having a hard time of it.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“It’s alright. We’re all under a lot of stress right now. I know how you’re feeling. I think I’ve been feeling it longer than you have, honestly. Look, just don’t tell anyone else, okay. I’ll talk to the rest of our group, and if they don’t mind, I’ll tell you where to meet us.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, Hermione!” Sally-Anne squealed. She squeezed her back uncomfortably tight and kissed her on the cheek. For her part, Hermione was pleased she could help another friend, but she really hoped this wouldn’t get out of hand.

* * *

“Ginny, please tell me you didn’t tell anyone about our you-know-what practice.”

Hermione was agitated again by breakfast the next morning, and it didn’t help that Ginny suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

“Oh, come on!” she yelled a little too loudly.

“I only told Luna, Hermione. _And_ I told her to keep it a secret. I trust her. I’m her best friend, though, and it just sort of slipped out.”

“Of course it did. Did she seem…interested?”

“She… _did_ kind of ask if she could join in,” Ginny said. Hermione rolled her eyes. “Well, she’s a Ravenclaw, and she actually believes Harry about You-Know-Who. It couldn’t hurt, could it?”

“Her, too?” Harry said uncomfortably. Ginny gave him a quizzical look. “Neville and Dean asked us to join yesterday,” he said.

“ _And_ Sally-Anne asked me last night,” Hermione added. “Dean told her.”

Harry and Ron coloured. “Er, sorry about that,” Ron said.

“Well, what’s done is done. George, Fred, did _you_ tell anyone?” she asked, afraid of the answer.

But Fred answered proudly, “Nope. No one.” He shot Ron a smug look.

“Fred wanted to tell Lee, but I said we should ask you first,” George said.

“Whipped,” Fred grumbled.

“Jealous,” his twin replied.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Hermione cut in before an argument could start, “I was thinking we could bring in more people—maybe even should—but we need to slow down and figure out how to make sure Umbridge doesn’t hear about it.”

“Also, we don’t want to be teaching half the school,” Harry pointed out.

“I’d mostly be concerned about the secrecy, but I agree it would be a bit much. But before we even get that far, I wanted to ask you if you were all okay with bringing in more people. Were all in this together, aren’t we?”

The other five all stopped and thought, though the Twins didn’t have to think very long.

“Works for us,” Fred said.

“Yeah, I wanted to ask you first, but we thought Lee _and_ the girls might interested,” George added.

“Which girls are these, George?” Hermione said with exaggerated suspicion.

“Er…” George said. Fred sniggered at him. “Oh, shut it, Fred. I meant from the Quidditch team. Angelina, Alicia, and Katie.”

“Alright, then. Ginny?”

“I don’t have many different friends apart from you to ask—maybe Colin and Dennis? But I don’t mind. It might be fun.”

“Ron?”

“Eh, might as well. Say, d’you think Parvati would wanna do it?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. Ron was still trying to chase after her roommate off and on, but she really thought they’d be better off as just friends. “Okay, let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said. Merlin’s beard, they’d be up to seventeen already. “Neville, Dean, Sally-Anne, and Luna. We’ll invite the four of them this Saturday, but don’t tell _anybody_ else until we meet and discuss it then. Agreed?”

“Agreed.”


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Proud member of Rowling’s Army—or I would be if she had one.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who corrected my spelling. The correct forms are, indeed, “offensive” and “defensive,” even in British English. This will be corrected in this and all future chapters.

Dan and Emma Granger had just got home from their practice when they received an unexpected visitor.

 _Pop!_ “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Granger.”

“Dobby?” Dan said in surprise. “What are you doing here? Is something wrong with Hermione?”

“Miss Hermione is fine, sir,” Dobby said. “I has a letter for you from Miss Hermione.” He held out a parchment envelope.

“A letter? Oh, good. We were wondering why it was late,” Emma said. “But why did she send it with you? Why didn’t she send and owl?”

“Miss Hermione says she _also_ sent an owl, Mrs. Granger.”

“Also sent an owl? But why would…” She trailed off and opened the envelope. The letter was a long one, and she soon found it a surprising, and then a truly disturbing one:

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I_ _’m sorry this letter is late. I needed some extra time to decide how I wanted to do this and get the wording exactly right. I’m sending this letter with Dobby to deliver directly to you, and I also sent_ _ another _ _letter by owl. If I timed it right, you should receive that one soon after this one. I wrote two letters because I need to test something. I_ _’m sorry if I just really misread you, but I thought a couple of things in your last letter didn’t look right, and call me paranoid, but I’m worried that someone may be tampering with our post—namely Professor Umbridge. She’s so deep into propaganda and political manipulation that I honestly wouldn’t put it past her._

_I wrote the exact text of my other letter below. When it arrives, I want you to compare the two and send a letter back with Dobby telling me what you found. If they_ _’re identical, I’ll quit worrying, and we can forget this whole thing, but if not, then it means our post_ _ is _ _being tampered with, and we_ _’ll have to correspond exclusively through Dobby to make sure Umbridge doesn’t find out something she shouldn’t._

_Here_ _’s the correct letter:_

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_If you_ _’ve been reading the Daily Prophet, you’ll know about Professor Umbridge being appointed as High Inquisitor by now. She’s been given the power to inspect all of the teachers to see how well they’re teaching. I thought it was odd for her to be a teacher as well, so I asked her who got to inspect her classes, but she just said the Minister was handling it. She’s inspected a few of the teachers so far, but I don’t think she really found fault with any of them, except Professor Trelawney, the Divination teacher. I pointed her to my complaints about Professor Snape, but I don’t think that went anywhere, and Snape was really unhappy that I brought it up, so I think I need to let it go for now._

_I found out from Daphne Greengrass how the Ministry is able to do all of this stuff when the school is supposed to be independent. Apparently, the Ministry does the accreditation for all magical education, and they_ _’ve been writing a bunch of new accreditation requirements with the Educational Decrees. It’s the same system they used to force me to come back to Hogwarts this year._

_Unfortunately, Harry got another week of detention from Professor Umbridge for mouthing off about Professor Quirrell from first year. I_ _’m sure you remember. His second week was just as bad as his first, plus the Quidditch captain was furious with him, and Professor McGonagall didn’t show him any sympathy this time because he should have known better. Professor McGonagall_ _ did _ _convince Professor Dumbledore to modify Harry_ _’s punishment, but Umbridge just got the Ministry to pass another Educational Decree giving her the final say over punishments, and since the school bylaws still allow corporal punishment, there’s nothing else we can do._

_Umbridge_ _’s classes aren’t any better, either. She even tried to suggest Rebecca Gamp was the one who really wrote our paper on Gamp’s Law and that as a muggle-born, I couldn’t possibly have been done it! I wish there was something we could do about her, but with her Ministry contacts, she’s pretty much unassailable. I tried to reason with her about her curriculum, but she wouldn’t hear anything against it. I’m worried the lack of a practical component to the class will hurt everyone’s O.W.L. marks, and a lot of the other students are starting to worry about the same thing._

_So aside from that large problem, most things are alright at Hogwarts. I talked to Cho to try to get her and Cedric back together. It seemed to work, but I don_ _’t know if it will last. Greengrass and Davis have been nice to me, and helpful, and I’m getting some clearer ideas for my next arithmancy paper. My other friends are doing as well as they can. Ginny’s worried about Harry. He’s been having nightmares lately, and he’s really moody this year, even by his standards. Percy Weasley, who works at the Ministry, sent Ron a letter saying how great Professor Umbridge is and suggesting he should cut ties with Harry. That was just awful. Luna’s as cheerful as ever, and George and Fred can always find something to entertain themselves. They’re still up to their usual mischief, but I think I’ve got them to tone down their worst excesses._

_Yes, I_ _’m still getting enough sleep. It’s not always easy, but it’s worry more than overwork that’s weighing on me now, and that’s never caused much trouble for my sleep schedule before._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

“Dan, I have a bad feeling about this,” Emma said. She put the letter down only for him to pick it up again and examine it closely.

“Yes, so do I,” he said, trying to break down what was in there. “She thinks someone’s tampering with our post?”

“I suppose it’s possible if they’re really trying to control the students,” Emma mused. “If they’re doing questionable things and don’t want it getting out…like corporal punishment. They still use that in the magical world?”

“This year, at least. I think she would’ve mentioned it if they were using it regularly. I wonder what they’re doing to Harry that has her so worried, though.”

“Does it matter?”

“I don’t know,” Dan mumbled. “I feel like Hermione wouldn’t get so worked up if it was just a paddling like they did in the old days. She makes it sound like they’re…caning Harry or something.”

“But they wouldn’t need to do that on multiple days for one offence,” Emma pointed out.

“Right. That’s what worries me. Since when do they do that for _any_ corporal punishment? I feel like she’s leaving out something important. It doesn’t add up, like she always says.”

“She could be leaving things out if she’s worried about her letter being intercepted. We’ll have to wait and see what the other letter says.”

True to her word, Hermione’s other letter did come that evening. Emma and her husband both had steady hands, but she found hers on the verge of shaking a little as she unrolled the parchment she took from the owl. They compared the letters side by side with baited breath. Both were written perfectly in Hermione’s tidy script, but there were, indeed, differences.

_I pointed her to my complaints about Professor Snape, but I don_ _’t think that went anywhere, and Snape was really unhappy that I brought it up, so I think I need to let it go for now._

_I pointed her to my complaints about Professor Snape, but I think he passed his inspection pretty well, so I think I can let it go._

_His second week was just as bad as his first._

_He_ _’s really causing a lot of trouble for himself, and he’s alienating all the more sensible students and teachers._

_And since the school bylaws still allow corporal punishment, there_ _’s nothing else we can do._

_She said Professor Dumbledore was showing favouritism and being too soft on him, letting him get away with his lies._

And to top it off, the part about her questioning Hermione’s authorship of her paper was omitted entirely.

“Okay, that’s bad,” Dan said.

“And illegal,” Emma agreed. “I assume tampering with the post is illegal in the magical world just like it is here.”

“Well, there’s definitely something going on. It’s not quite Orwell stuff, but it’s getting close. It looks like they’re trying to paint Hogwarts and this Umbridge woman in a better light and suppress anything words about them that make them look fishy.”

“That’s what it looks like to me, too…Oh, dear. Now, I’m starting to worry about Hermione’s last letter. Do you remember, she said something about Harry’s detentions being _probably_ legal? What do you want to bet she originally wrote ‘illegal’?”

“Oh, God. After seeing this, I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Should we do something, then?”

“What _can_ we do, Emma? We can’t go to _our_ government, and it sounds like the corruption in theirs goes all the way to the top. I think all we can do is find a way to move to France by New Year’s, like we planned. Then, we can at least get Hermione out of there.”

“I suppose. And in the meantime, we’ll have to write her back right away.”

* * *

It took Hermione a bit by surprise when Dobby reappeared to her late that night, and by more surprise when he handed her two pieces of parchment and one sheet of paper with writing on them. “Your parents is wanting you to have all of these, Miss Hermione,” he said.

“Um…thank you, Dobby,” she said, taking the letters. “That’ll be all for now.”

“Yes, miss.”

She read her parents’ letter first. It was just as bad as she feared:

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_We_ _’re sorry to have to tell you that you were right. Someone did tamper with your letter in transit. We’ve sent both of your letters back with Dobby so you can see for yourself._

 

Hermione stopped and looked at the other letters, finding the differences. As she’d suspected, Umbridge was changing or taking out the worst parts and trying to make herself and the school under her command look better.

 

_Obviously, we think it_ _’s very disturbing and probably illegal that they’re doing that, and if this Professor Umbridge is as bad as you say, it’s probably her. It was a good idea to test it with Dobby. Now we know for sure, at least. You’re right that from now on, anything we don’t want the wrong people to know will have to go through him. If the Ministry is that corrupt, we know of a few things you’ve done that they could use against you. However, if they’re watching you this closely, we think we should also continue to send each other decoy letters by owl, or else they might get suspicious that we’ve stopped writing each other—just the unimportant details of your social life and such. (From Mum: Try to think like a normal teenager. You’ll figure it out.)_

_So now that we have secure correspondence, we want details. What was so bad about Harry_ _’s detentions? Did you get into some kind of trouble with Professor Snape? Are your boyfriend and his brother doing anything dangerous? Please keep us informed if you’re in trouble. We might not be able to do anything just now, but we want to know whether you’re alright._

_We_ _’re still working on moving to France by New Year’s, and we don’t think there will be any serious trouble with that, so all of this should be dealt with by spring term—for you, at least. We know you want to help your friends, but it doesn’t sound like there’s much you can do right now._

_Love from,_

_Mum and Dad_

 

Well, that settled that. She’d have to write them again soon. She wasn’t sure just yet how much she wanted to tell them about Harry’s detentions. Would they do something rash if they knew the full depths of Umbridge’s depravity? And she wasn’t sure about telling them about the defence practises, either. She was proud of herself for helping her friends more than her parents probably could have guessed, but they might not see it the same way.

* * *

“Hermione?” Harry approached her on Friday night.

“Yes?”

“I’ve been thinking about our Defence group tomorrow.”

“What about it?”

“Well, you said we need a way to make sure nobody tells about it. And…I was thinking about last year with the Goblet of Fire, and…what if we had a magical contract?”

“A contract?” she said in surprise. “You really want to get into one of those again?”

“Well, I thought it would be a good idea. We’ve got to do something, right?”

“I didn’t mean anything by it,” Hermione said quickly. “In fact, I’d thought of the idea myself. It’s just that with your history, I didn’t think you’d go for it.”

“Well, the Goblet of Fire caused a lot of trouble, sure,” Harry replied, “but I thought if we could control it and what it did, maybe it could work. It doesn’t have to be as bad—just some kind of consequence to make people think twice about telling. Do you think you could do that?”

“Sure, Harry. _You_ could probably do that if you had to.”

Harry gave her an incredulous look.

“Okay, but I think you and Ron together could. I do think it’s a good idea. How about I put something together tonight, and we’ll tell the Weasleys to meet us early at the Room of Requirement so we can work out exactly what we want in it.”

“Alright. Sounds good.”

* * *

“So Harry and I were thinking that we should use a binding magical contract to make sure nobody can tell anyone about the group unless we say so—nothing really bad, like the Goblet of Fire—just enough so they wouldn’t do it.”

“That could work,” Ginny said. “You’re probably right about the rumours spreading too far too fast. So what do you think the contract should do to them?”

“Oughta be something suitably nasty,” George suggested.

“And public,” added Fred, “so we can see who told.”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Hermione produced a second sheet of parchment with arcane runes and arithmantic diagrams written across it. “My idea was to give them the worst case of acne in school.”

Harry’s and the Weasleys’ eyes widened. Ginny paled a little. “Worse than Eloise Midgen?” she said.

“It’ll make her case look like a couple of cute freckles. _And_ it’ll spell ‘SNEAK’ across their face.”

They all stared at her in what she thought was a slightly exaggerated fashion. “Wow…” Ginny said. “That’s…that’s even more devious than I thought.”

“Well, I wanted to write ‘TRAITOR,’ but I wasn’t sure if it would fit.”

Ron chuckled and spoke up: “Well, I guess it’s true: ‘The female of the species is more deadly than the male.’”

Everyone silently turned to face him in astonishment.

“Yes, I read a poem. Try not to faint.”

“You know, that poem is really kind of sexist,” Hermione told him.

Ron shrugged: “It fits you pretty well, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“You _do_ kind of have a vindictive streak, Hermione,” George said hesitantly. Hermione automatically glared at him before she could catch herself. “My beautiful, brilliant girlfriend, who we’re very glad turns that streak towards our deserving foes,” he added.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but their words did make her second-guess herself a bit. Was she being too vindictive? She’d told herself she was just doing what she had to to survive. “You…don’t think it’s too much, do you?”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “I think it’s brilliant. We all know there’s a war coming. We ought to be serious about it like we believe it.”

“Alright, then,” she said with relief. “Everyone else? Yes? No?”

“If what Umbridge did to Harry is any indication, she’s gonna fight just as dirty,” Ginny said, having quickly recovered herself. “I say yes.”

“Works for me,” said Ron.

“A bit nastier than our usual fare—” Fred began.

“—but if they’re smart, they won’t do it,” George continued.

“—and if they’re dumb, they’ll deserve it,” Fred finished.

“Good. We’ll go with the ‘SNEAK,’” Hermione said, combining her arithmantic parchment with the sign-up list. “So before we bring anyone else into the group, and especially before we show them the Room, we make them sign the contract. I was thinking we should make it so only Harry and I can talk about the group.”

“Why not us?” the Twins said at once.

“At least _we_ didn’t tell anyone,” said Fred, looking at Ron.

“Yeah, because I said so,” said George.

“Will you cut that out—?”

“ _Ahem_ ,” Hermione interrupted, “I was thinking it should be only two of us because the more people who can talk, the greater the risk that someone we don’t want will hear about it. I also wrote the contract so we can change who has privileges later if we need to.”

“Hmm…I can see that,” George conceded.

“I’m not crazy about it, but okay,” Ron said.

They all soon agreed, and, after making a few minor changes to the wording, they signed the contract just in time for their four new members to show up.

“Whoa. What is this place?” Neville said in awe when they let him in. Luna, Dean, and Sally-Anne looked around appreciatively.

“It’s called the Room of Requirement,” Hermione explained. “I’m not sure what it is, exactly, but it can take the form of whatever you need. This is where we practised last week.”

“So you’re really learning actual Defence in here?” Dean said.

“We’re trying to,” Harry told him. “We’ve got old books from when the class was actually good, and we’ve got targets and stuff in here to practice on.”

“How does it work, then?” Sally-Anne asked.

“First off, we need to swear you to secrecy,” Hermione said in a business-like tone. “Umbridge doesn’t want us learning real Defence. If she found out we were doing this it would be bad. I don’t think you even know how bad.” She thought of Harry’s detentions. As they’d feared, the lines had left a scar that read, _I must not tell lies_. “We…we wrote up a contract that says you won’t tell anyone about this group without our say-so…or else.”

“What’s the ‘or else’?” Sally-Anne asked.

“Let’s just say you’ll be marked as a sneak for all to see. If there’s someone you want to invite to join us, tell Harry or me, and we’ll talk to them. Now, if all of you are okay with that…”

The four newcomers read over the contract carefully and signed it, and it looked like they were in good shape. Without further ado, Harry began the lesson.

“We’re going to start with basic duelling skills,” he told the group. “There’s a lot more to fighting than just duelling, but it’s a good place to start. Do you all know the Disarming Charm?”

They nodded, although Dean questioned whether it was too basic to start on.

“Don’t knock it until you’re sure you can cast it,” Harry said, “and besides, I still used it against Voldemort last year.”

That convinced them, and they soon started casting. Unfortunately, the four newcomers were not as proficient as Harry, Hermione, or the Weasleys, many of whom had faced real foes before. Their aim wasn’t as good, and they couldn’t cast the spells as consistently. Neville’s spells in particular were very weak at first, although he improved significantly with perseverance until he managed to disarm Harry. Luna put in great effort, but she wasn’t a natural fighter, and her results were very patchy. Dean and Sally-Anne weren’t much better. Harry, however, got into his roll again as he began wandering around and helping them correct what they were doing wrong, although he still wasn’t entirely happy doing it alone.

“So you need to make sure your grip doesn’t slip and make your wand line up wrong, and—” Harry stopped in the middle of one explanation and turned to look at Hermione. “Hermione, get up here,” he demanded suddenly. “Why should I do this on my own?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re the one who told me about the different wand grips, weren’t you? You should explain it.”

“But you’re the teacher, though,” she protested.

“And who says you’re not a good teacher, too? You know more spells than I do. You were teaching me last year.”

“Oh, I know that. I was just trying to help your self-confidence.” Hermione came up and stood front and centre beside Harry, showing them her wand. “Each wand grips a little bit differently,” she said, holding her own vine wood wand out for them to see. “My wand is thinner than average and doesn’t have a well-defined handle, like most wands. Luna, I think yours is the one that’s most like it. It’s easiest for me to hold it like a pointer, and I need a little bit more precise grip because I can’t close my whole first comfortably around it. But even if you can with yours, it’s a bit ham-handed. It can work—Ron makes it work—but it won’t be the most accurate way of casting for most of you. You need a good range of motion to really get the wand movements down…”

Hermione had never paid much attention to how different people held their wands until this year. There were a few universals of wand handling, and a few precision spells that needed a particular grip, but for the most part, Professor Flitwick had taught them to find a grip that felt comfortable for them. Hermione always held her own wand the way a professor would hold a pointer. She _had_ previously noticed that George used a tight sloth grip with just his fingers, while Fred used a very loose grip similar to a muggle stage magician. It was funny to think how they were so similar, but their wand handling was so different. Now that she looked, Harry and Ginny both held their wands similar to herself, but Ron indeed held his in his closed fist like a rounders bat. Predictably, Luna’s grip with the oddest. She held her wand almost without using her thumb, gripping it between her fingers and her palm.

There were a lot of variations among the group, but with a bit more explaining, Harry and Hermione worked together to help the others find the right grip. Much of this was revised in Charms Class in first year, but Professor Flitwick never really did a refresher, so it was definitely relevant. In the end, all ten of them finished up the lesson feeling distinctly more confident.

“You see? I think you’re a pretty good teacher, too, Hermione,” Harry told her.

“I suppose,” she agreed. “I don’t think it’s my calling, but I can definitely help. So,” she told the group, “before we go, two things. First, Harry and I have our ways of knowing where Umbridge and the other patrols are, but I think we still shouldn’t leave all at once. Maybe three at a time so we don’t attract unwanted attention. And second, we need a list of people we want to invite to the group. I’m talking about people we trust and who would be interested in joining.”

She already had Parvati, the Creevey Brothers, the rest of the Quidditch Team, and Lee listed, so that was mostly covered. No one listed anyone new except Neville, who said, “I think maybe we should ask Susan Bones from Hufflepuff.”

“You know her?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, from Herbology. She’s really upset about Umbridge’s class.”

“Is she related to Amelia Bones?” Harry asked.

“Uh huh. She’s her niece.”

“That could be good, if she’ll sign the contract,” Harry said. “Amelia Bones was the one who took my side at my trial.”

“She’s also the Director of Magical Law Enforcement,” Neville said.

That _didn_ _’t_ sound so good to Hermione, even if she was on Harry’s side. “Do we trust her?” she asked.

“I know she’s no friend of Fudge,” Neville said. “She always complains about Fudge cutting Auror funding and stuff.”

“Alright, then. I guess I’ll approach her. Tell Harry or me if you think of anyone else. That’ll put us at eighteen if everyone shows, so we’ll have plenty of people.”

“Hey, do you think we can do Friday night for the next meeting?” Ron asked. “Saturday’s a Hogsmeade day. Everyone’ll be tired out.”

“Good point,” Harry said. “Any problems with Friday?”

No one objected, but Ginny said, “Friday’s fine, but maybe we should have a secret way of telling each other when meetings are, so we can reschedule if we need to.”

“Hmm, maybe,” Hermione said. “I’ll think about it. Any more business?” No one spoke. “Meeting adjourned.”

* * *

The recruiting went surprisingly well. Apparently, a lot of people shared her concerns about passing their exams and/or about Voldemort, and everyone she and Harry approached signed the contract—at least once they were informed Harry was teaching. Even the prefects, Parvati and Angelina, were eager to join. It was hero worship, sure, but it did work to their advantage. She did have to tell little Dennis Creevey that he might not be able to do the more advanced spells, but the basics they were currently learning would definitely be useful to him.

Hermione approached the last person on her list on Thursday after Herbology. She’d had a passing acquaintance with the girl in her early years—and, embarrassingly, they had crushed on Gilderoy Lockhart together in second year—but they hadn’t spoken to each other in over a year. Still, Harry didn’t even know what she looked like— _boys_ —so Hermione was the one to approach her.

“Excuse me,” she said, “it’s Susan Bones, right?”

Susan looked up and smiled: “Oh, right, Hermione. Wow, it’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Uh huh. Listen, I just wanted to talk to you because I heard your aunt is the Director of Magical Law Enforcement.”

Hermione was amazed by how quickly Susan turned stiff and guarded. She could guess that her aunt was on the defensive a lot lately—both politically and physically, if she believed the truth. “Yes. What do you want?” she said.

“I just want to talk…and maybe make an offer.”

“If you want to talk to Aunt Amelia, you’ll have to do it yourself.” Susan turned up her nose and started to walk away.

“Susan, wait!” Hermione stopped her. She could see how her words could be misconstrued. “That’s not what I meant. This really isn’t even about your aunt at all. I just mentioned it because I thought it was more likely that you and she believe Harry—you know, about Voldemort.”

Susan flinched, but she started to relax as the words sank in. “Sort of. It’s more like Fudge is acting shiftier than usual, and Aunt Amelia doesn’t trust him as far as she can throw him,” she corrected.

“Okay, then, but do _you_ believe Harry?” Hermione said. “No, wait, that isn’t really that important. The _real_ question is, what do you think of Umbridge’s teaching?”

And boy, did _that_ get Susan talking. Hermione was treated to a lengthy rant about how Umbridge was awful, and everyone was going to flunk their O.W.L. and be unprepared to defend themselves in daily life, let alone go into the Auror Corps, and how Aunt Amelia had had a row about it with Fudge, but she couldn’t do much about it because she was trying to keep her job. Hermione stared in silence for a minute when she finally wound down.

“…Right. Susan, what would you say if there was a group of students getting together to learn real defence and not the drivel Umbridge teaches?”

Susan’s eyes widened. “Why haven’t I heard about this?” she demanded.

“Because it’s being kept secret because Umbridge definitely wouldn’t approve.”

“Oh, right. I should’ve thought of that. So…a secret Defence Club? How does that work?”

Hermione was whispering, now: “We use the old textbooks from when Rem—Professor Lupin taught here. Harry and I teach, and we do a lot of practical drills. What do you think?”

“ _Harry_ _’s_ teaching?” Susan gasped. “You mean, the _actual_ Harry Potter?”

“Do you know any other Harrys?”

“No, but I mean—Is it true he can cast a corporeal Patronus?”

“Oh, sure. Actually, we both can.”

“ _No way_!” she gasped.

“It’s true. Professor Lupin taught us.”

“ _No way_!” Susan repeated.

Hermione grinned, looked around, and pulled her into the nearest empty classroom, where she produced her wand. _“Expecto Patronum!”_ she cast, and her glowing, silver otter appeared.

“ _No way_!” Susan said again. “Aunt Amelia says not even all the Aurors can do that.”

Privately, Hermione suspected quite a few Aurors didn’t have the sense to practise that spell daily if they weren’t on Azkaban duty. She still did at school because she didn’t ever want it to get rusty. “So what do you say?” she asked.

“Sign me up! When is it?”

“Well, that’s the complicated part. We really want to keep this secret, so we’re asking everyone who joins to sign a contract not to talk about it outside the group. Harry and I are the only allowed recruiters, too.”

“A contract?” Susan said nervously. With her close association with the Ministry, she probably knew the uses and dangers of magical contracts better than most. “Would I be able to read it?”

“Yes, I have it here.” Hermione handed over the parchment for Susan to look over.

The Hufflepuff girl read the whole thing carefully, twice. “Mm hmm, not bad…” she muttered to herself. “Uses the word ‘willingly’; that’s good…” She looked up: “What happens if I break it?”

“It won’t be good for your complexion, and we’ll all know you told.” Hermione had left the consequences intentionally vague whenever one of her recruits asked in the hopes that their imagination would dream up something really horrible that would keep them in check better. Maybe not the best policy, but it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Susan looked over the contract once more to make sure she hadn’t missed anything, and she gasped when she noticed the list of names. “That many people believe Harry?” she said in amazement.

“I’m not sure they all believe Harry, but they’re all willing to go against Umbridge.”

Susan took a deep breath and said, “Okay, I’m in.” She signed her name. “So when’s the meeting.”

“Tomorrow night at eight o’clock. Seventh floor, by the tapestry of the dancing trolls.”

“Great. I’ll be there. Oh, but do you think you could recruit a few more people?”

Hermione took a calming breath and nodded: “Who were you thinking of?”

“My friend, Hannah—and Cedric and Cho.”

“Cedric and Cho! I can’t believe I didn’t think of them!”

* * *

The next night, the secret Defence club assembled in the Room of Requirement twenty-one strong, including the Head Boy, and they were hanging on Harry’s every word. With all the new people, the reaction was much stronger when Harry mentioned Voldemort’s name, and quite a few more of them were only there for tutoring purposes, or to see if all the rumours about Harry were true, but they all stayed for Harry’s and Hermione’s lesson, which moved a little faster this time, but still began with the Disarming Charm. But since the group was unlikely to grow a whole lot more soon, they would be able to move on from there.

“Just remember,” Harry said at the end. “This isn’t just about passing our O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s. This thing will help you get there, but the really important thing is to learn to defend ourselves from Voldemort. The Ministry’s no help. They’re in complete denial—”

“And they sent us the worst teacher ever,” Hannah Abbott spoke up. She’s doing everything she can to stop us using defensive spells!”

“We think,” Hermione said solemnly, “that Fudge thinks Dumbledore’s after his job, and Umbridge has some mad idea that Dumbledore is going to use the students here at Hogwarts as a private army.” Which was uncomfortably close to the truth, considering how many Order of the Phoenix members Dumbledore had recruited straight out of Hogwarts—but they weren’t aimed at the Ministry.

Nearly everyone looked stunned at this revelation, except for Luna, who said something about Fudge having an army of heliopaths, but Hermione shushed her before they could get off track.

“So we’re on our own, here,” she said. “We have to prepare ourselves because nobody else will. Now, we might have to move the meeting times around to accommodate Quidditch practises and the like, so I made these.” She handed out twenty-one fake galleons, similar to the ones she had made for communication between herself and Harry last year. “They look like real galleons—enough to fool a casual search—but they’re not, really. Look at the lettering on the edges. I’ve put a Protean Charm on them,” she said, to general astonishment. “I learnt it while I was helping Harry last year. This way, we’ll be able to send a message to the whole group about when we’re holding a meeting of…of…We really need a name for this group, don’t we?”

That led to a lively discussion. After toying with a few names, Ginny suggested the D.A., short for Dumbledore’s Army, since that was what Umbridge was afraid of. Hermione wasn’t sure that was the wisest choice, but to her surprise, a majority of the group went with it, so she wrote the name at the top of the contract to make it official: DUMBLEDORE’S ARMY.


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If Harry Potter has a vision of JK Rowling, he may be having a meta-fictional crisis. If JK Rowling has a vision of Harry Potter, she gets all the money.
> 
> Part of this chapter is quoted from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
> 
> As many reviewers pointed out, Hermione ought to inform the other members of the D.A. that their post is being monitored. I’ve corrected this oversight in this chapter.

The next few days went smoothly. Saturday was a pleasant and uneventful Hogsmeade visit, and classes continued with little trouble except for the announcement on Monday that Professor Trelawney had been put on probation. Since Hermione had never had her as a teacher, and she reportedly wasn’t very good, it was hard for her to care much. In the meantime, she set up her system of letters and decoy letters to her parents and updated them on most of what was going on at Hogwarts. She did mention Dumbledore’s Army to them, but not by name, and not in great detail.

It occurred to her that if her post was being monitored, other people’s post might be, too. Certainly, Harry’s and the Weasleys’ would be, but would Umbridge bother with anyone else? Susan Bones, probably, but people who were toeing the line and not causing trouble? Hermione didn’t think she’d bother. And if it got out that people thought their post was being monitored, and Umbridge really _was_ doing it to only a few people, Hermione could be implicated in telling them very quickly. It was a conundrum that troubled her for some time until she realised she could use Hogwarts’s notorious rumour mill to her advantage. All she had to do was think like a normal teenage girl, like Mum said.

She didn’t approach any of the gossip-mongers directly. That might be too easy to trace. Instead, she approached Susan first and told her the problem in broad strokes. They then approached Padma together, since Parvati had asked Hermione to recruit her to the D.A. Padma was excited about the prospect to learn proper Defence and a little disappointed that they didn’t come to her sooner. Hermione and Susan then dropped a few deliberately vague and speculative comments about their post being monitored in Padma’s presence. Sure enough, Padma told Parvati, and just like that, the rumour was around the whole school by dinner time, with no one able to say where it came from or whether it was true. Most probably thought it was a joke, but those in the know would know better. It seemed the perfect plan.

Although…was it her imagination, or was Umbridge glaring at Hermione in particular at meals, now, and not just Harry?

She tried not to let it bother her. After all, Umbridge had plenty of other reasons to dislike her. Over the course of that week, Hermione spent much of her free time improving the Mathemagician’s Map, since the “safety measures” it contained were of the most immediate importance. She got the house elf quarters to show up pretty easily. The Map was already receiving the data it needed for that from the wards. She just needed to tell it to draw them. The other missing areas of the Map were harder. The Chamber of Secrets turned out to be Unplottable. She found that out when she tried to physically draw it, and a magical force stopped her hand from making the pen strokes. The Room of Requirement turned out to be unplottable for a quite different reason. Apparently, as far as the wards were concerned, it literally didn’t exist when it wasn’t there, so there was nothing for the Map to draw.

In the end, she came up with an alternative solution. The Map would simply monitor when a name dropped off the floor-plan at those two locations and write a list of names that were in the unplottable areas off to the side. With a few tweaks, she also got it to automatically open to the floor it was on and improved the text interface some. The space above the Great Tower was still giving her headaches, though. The weird space that looked like bits of the rest of the castle jumbled together refused to register on the Map, and it would take a protracted search of the anchor stones to figure out where it fit into the wards. Maybe it was a space that the monitoring runes couldn’t mathematically handle. Anyway, she decided to just use the same “off the map” method there, and it was good enough for now.

If only Harry’s problems were that easy to solve.

* * *

Harry was walking back to the castle from Quidditch practice on Tuesday when it happened. It started as a flare of pain in his scar, stronger than he had felt in months. He brushed it off in front of the team as having poked himself in the eye, but Ron could tell it wasn’t that.

“Was it your scar?” he said.

Harry nodded. “Yeah—bad—” he stumbled as he cringed again.

“But…but he can’t be _here_ , can he?”

“No, he’s…he’s probably miles away. I think it’s hurting because—” Harry felt a stab of pain like an icepick being driven into his skull and he leaned against the wall. “Because he angry,” he grunted. Then, he had a vague image of the world spinning and Ron shouting at him as he collapsed to the floor.

He was in an ornate, but dimly lit room. He heard a hissing sound and saw a bone-white wand in his hand, but it wasn’t his hand. A man was cowering at his feet.

“You did not retrieve it?” Harry heard himself say, except it wasn’t his voice.

“Master,” the cowering man said, “the door is guarded at all hours. Dumbledore’s people are there all the time. And being caught inside there is even worse. Dumbledore couldn’t even save his own man from the Aurors—”

“I have had enough of your excuses,” he hissed. “ _Crucio_!”

With another stab of pain, Harry was jolted back into his own body. He was lying on the floor. When did that happen? He blinked up into the light and saw Ron, Ginny, and Hermione standing over him looking worried. How long had he been out?

“Harry? Harry, what happened?” Ginny said frantically.

“I saw him,” he whispered. “I saw Voldemort.”

“EEP! Wh-where,” she squeaked.

“Not…not here.” He couldn’t tell them that he had apparently seen the vision out of Voldemort’s eyes. “Dunno. He was angry—furious…Something didn’t go his way.” With a lurch, he realised what the odd feeling he had felt weeks ago in Umbridge’s office had been. It had been _happiness_. This time, though it was anger.

“How do you know, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“I dunno. I saw it. He was torturing somebody…hurts…”

“Come on, mate, we’ll get you to the Hospital Wing,” Ron said.

“No,” he groaned. “Need to see…Dumbledore.”

* * *

“You can’t wait any longer, Albus,” Sirius insisted. He pounded his fist on the Headmaster’s desk. “Harry needs to start learning Occlumency _now!_ He’s having visions of Voldmort, and Ginny says he’s having recurring nightmares about a long, dark corridor that he can never get to the end of. Voldemort’s already starting to exploit the link between them. Leaving it alone isn’t working.”

“Sirius, you know we will have the same problem teaching Harry as before,” Dumbledore said with his usual annoying calm.

“Dammit! You _told_ me you would do something if he started getting worse! Hell, I’d even take Snivellus teaching him over what we’re doing now, which is jack squat.”

“I _did_ have an idea for Severus to teach Harry. I fear it may not be the most effective possible method, but I believe it will hold the least risk for everyone involved, and if nothing else, Harry will at least be forewarned of Voldemort’s tricks.”

“Then _do_ it,” Sirius demanded. “Just do _something_ for the kid. He can’t keep going on like this, or it’s going to get a lot worse really fast.”

“Very well. I will speak to Severus and Harry.”

* * *

Harry wasn’t sure which emotion was most appropriate at the moment: amazement that Dumbledore had _actually_ willingly called him up to his office for once, confusion because Sirius was there, worry because Snape was there, or anger that Dumbledore _still_ wouldn’t look him in the eye!

“You wanted to see me, Professor?” Harry said.

“Yes, Harry,” Dumbledore said, gazing fixedly at Sirius. “Please have a seat. There is something we must discuss with you.”

Harry sat. He wondered why they hadn’t discussed whatever this was last time. He assumed it was because of his vision, but when he first reported the vision, Dumbledore just ran some kind of scan on him and asked some probing questions that eventually got him to admit he’d seen the vision from Voldemort’s point of view. He still didn’t know what that meant.

“Your godfather,” Dumbledore continued, “recently gave me an ultimatum regarding a measure we had been considering, but that I had hesitated to enact because of the difficulty of the task.”

“Harry,” Sirius spoke, and Harry was pleased to see he _did_ look him in the eye. “These visions and…and moods you’re getting from Voldemort—we’re worried that he could use them to hurt you.”

“He’s already hurting me,” Harry said, rubbing his scar.

“Yes, sorry. But we think that’s mostly spillover. Like he’s focusing other things. If he really turned his attention to hurting you, it could get a lot worse.”

Harry paled. He didn’t realise the visions were _that_ bad.

“Now, we have good news and bad news,” Sirius said. “The good news is that there’s an obscure branch of magic called Occlumency that can help you. It’s the art of protecting the mind from intrusion, and it should help you shut Voldemort out…The bad news is that the only person who can teach it to you properly is Professor Snape.”

“Snape?!” Harry’s head spun around to look at the scowling Potions Master, and then to Dumbledore. “You can’t be serious, Professor!” He glanced back at Sirius, but his godfather didn’t make the obvious joke.

“I’m afraid it was unavoidable, Harry,” Dumbledore said, still not looking at him. “None of our other options were viable.”

“But Snape?”

“That’s _Professor_ Snape to you, Potter,” the man in question scowled, “and I assure you I have no desire to do this either, but we must all make sacrifices for the greater good.”

Harry looked back at Sirius pleadingly.

“Sorry, Pup. I tried to come up with something better, but we really didn’t have much choice. But for you _and_ Snape, I want you to try to be civil to each other.”

“I will not coddle him, Black,” Snape said.

“I’m not asking you to, Snape. I’m just asking you to treat him like one of your own students. And Harry, give me a call on your mirror if he gives you a hard time.”

“You really want me to learn some arcane branch of magic I’ve never heard of from _him_?” Harry demanded. He looked around the room, but no one seemed ready to give. Turning back to Dumbledore, who still wouldn’t look at him, his anger boiled over. “Look at me!” he yelled.

Dumbledore’s eyes met his in surprise—

 _BAM!_ A stab of pain in his scar and a flash of rage far stronger than his own made him squeeze his eyes shut. He felt like drawing his wand on the old man, but the feeling vanished in a moment. An awkward (relative) silence filled the office.

“Harry, I think it is best if you return to your Common Room, now,” Dumbledore said in a voice that had lost all of its joviality.

Harry considered protesting, but thought better of it and stood up.

“Potter,” Snape snapped at him. “I expect you in my office immediately following supper on Monday and Wednesday evenings. If anyone asks, you are taking Remedial Potions lessons. Merlin knows you could use those, too.”

“Yes…sir,” Harry grumbled.

* * *

Harry was in a bad mood after that, but it lifted when Hermione announced she had once again made the executive decision for the core of the D.A.—herself, Harry, and the Weasleys—to meet a half hour before their scheduled meeting time. Though initially resistant, Harry and the others were receptive to her idea when she told them her rationale was to teach them new spells she had invented.

“This ought to be good,” Ginny said. “Harry had lots of good things to say about the ones you taught him for the Tournament last year.”

“Yeah, used two of them on You-Know-Who, didn’t he?” Ron added.

“Well, Cedric used one, but yeah,” Harry confirmed.

Hermione frowned a little. “Yes…” she said. “To be honest, I’m a little uncertain whom to teach these spells to. Some of them worry me more than others—you, know, what they can do. I might teach some of them only to Harry, and others, I might bring in Cedric and Cho or even the whole group. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Well…as long as we get some cool spells of our own,” Ginny said.

“Yeah,” Fred agreed. “We’re the inner circle of the D.A. That should count for something.”

Harry shuddered: “Ugh, can we _not_ use that phrase talking about us?”

“Oh…sorry, Harry,” he said turning redder than usual.

“Anyway, whatever you call us, let’s get started,” Hermione cut in. It was time to _really_ get down to business. “The spell I want to teach you today, I call the Vertigo Hex. Harry, you’re probably the most resistant to motion sickness. Would you mind demonstrating?”

“Er…sure,” he said uncertainly and stepped forward.

“Thank you, Harry. Now, watch closely.” She swirled her wand in a quick spiral and cast, _“Labyrinthitis!”_

A pale yellow beam struck Harry, and he immediately began wobbling dizzily. “Well…it works.”

“As you can see, the hex induces dizziness to throw off an opponent’s aim by disrupting the vestibular system of the inner ear.” It was a nifty little spell, in her opinion, and the first that she figured out by thumbing through her parents’ old medical textbooks. “It’s relatively easy to dispel, but it _is_ powerful. Now, I found that if you shake your head quickly, it dissipates faster—”

Harry did so and promptly fell over.

Hermione winced: “—but if you do, it gets worse before it gets better.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Harry groaned.

“Sorry, Harry.”

“Still, could be useful,” Ron said. “So how do we cast it?”

* * *

_By Order of the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_

_All Student Organisations, Societies, Teams, Groups, and Clubs are henceforth disbanded._

_An Organisation, Society, Team, Group, or Club is hereby defined as a regular meeting of three or more students._

_Permission to re-form may be sought from the High Inquisitor (Professor Umbridge)._

_No Student Organisation, Society, Team, Group, or Club may exist without the knowledge and approval of the High Inquisitor._

_Any student found to have formed, or to belong to, an Organisation, Society, Team, Group, or Club that has not been approved by the High Inquisitor will be expelled._

_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Five_

_Signed by:_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_High Inquisitor_

 

The sign appeared on the Gryffindor notice board on Monday morning to general horror.

“This is terrible!” Angelina Johnson yelled.

“I’ll say!” Hermione said. “How did she know?”

“What? How did who know what?”

Hermione looked at Angelina in confusion, then checked that there were no non-members standing nearby and whispered, “How did Umbridge know about the D.A.?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“What are _you_ talking about?”

“What are _all_ of you talking about?” a new voice demanded. It was Ron, with Harry by his side, along with more people who were rapidly congregating around the notice board.

“Umbridge disbanded the Quidditch team!” Angelina wailed.

_“What?!”_

“She disbanded _all_ the student organisations,” Hermione clarified. “We have to ask her permission to reform them.”

“Bloody hell!” Harry said. He stepped up and read the notice. He started shaking with anger, his hands clenching into fists. “This can’t be a coincidence. She knows.”

“But we’ve got the contract!” Ron said. “How does she know?”

“I don’t know, but she must,” Hermione said.

“She’s here to discredit me and Dumbledore and stop him from building an army,” Harry said. “None of the _regular_ clubs are a threat to her. It’s gotta be because of the D.A.”

“D’you reckon someone will come down to breakfast all spotty?” Ron said.

“If they broke the contract…” Hermione started, then froze. “I’ll be right back.” She ran up the stairs back to her dorm and took the D.A. contract from her stash of papers. Like her notes on the war effort and the Mathemagician’s Map, she had disguised it as Arithmancy notes, so she wasn’t worried about it being discovered, and quick look at the _real_ document gave her her answer.

“No one in the D.A. told,” she informed her friends when she reached the Common Room again. “I charmed the contract to write their names in red if they did, and no one was highlighted. She must have found out some other way.”

“Ugh. Such a chore,” Alicia Spinnet said. Half the tower was gathered around the notice board by now. “You know Cedric, Roger, and I will have to ask permission to reform our Arithmancy study group?”

“Your study group? Oh, crud. I’ll need permission for _my_ study group, too,” she realised.

“ _Your_ study group?” Ron spoke up. “What study group?”

“My Thursday study group with Greengrass and Davis. It’s a regular meeting of three students, and I don’t think Umbridge will be in a mood to let it slide because it’s informal…She might even say no just to spite me.”

“Oh Well, that’s not that bad,” Ron said. “Why’d you start a study group with a couple of Slytherins anyway?”

“Slytherins aren’t all bad, Ron.”

“They’ve been pretty shirty this year. And either way, is a study group with a couple of Slytherins that big a deal?”

“I’ve been trying to be friendly and reach out to the other houses, remember? And I owe it to them after they took a chance working with me.”

“Well, I wouldn’t worry too much,” Angelina assured her. “If _they_ ask her, I think she’ll probably do it. She seems to like Slytherins.”

“I still don’t get how she knew,” Harry said. “No one could’ve written home about it, could they?”

“No, not to anyone who didn’t already know. So you could write to your parents about it,” Hermione pointed to the Weasleys, “but we agreed on no letters because they could be intercepted. You don’t think _they_ told, do you?”

“Nah,” Fred answered. “Percy would, but Mum and Dad are smart enough not to tell him.”

“I…I could _maybe_ see Sirius getting drunk and telling some woman,” Harry conceded.

It was possible, but it didn’t ring true. Sirius had been keeping the secrets of the Order just fine. Hermione might have considered Hagrid a possibility for the same reason, but he still wasn’t back from wherever he went. “I don’t know, Harry,” she said. “I think it was most likely someone in the school did it. If no one on the contract told, then someone must have let it slip before we drew up the contract.”

“ _Or_ …” Harry said, coming to a realisation, “ _or_ they never signed the contract.”

“But who didn’t—”

“Seamus never signed, remember?” he said. “We told him before we wrote the contract, and he didn’t want to join.”

“That git!” Ron yelled, and he turned and ran up the stairs. “FINNIGAN!”

“Ron!” Harry followed him.

“Ron! Harry! Wait!” Hermione rushed up after them.

She reached the boys’ dorm to find the place rapidly descending into chaos. Seamus, who had clearly been having a lie-in till the last minute to head down for breakfast, was running from an angry Ron while Harry tried to hold Ron back.

“Why’d you do it, Finnigan?” Ron yelled as he tried to take a swing at him. “Thought you’d get Harry back for ragging on your mum, did you?”

“Ron, stop!” Hermione yelled, grabbing onto him.

“Ron, wait, don’t you think we should _ask_ him if he did it?” Harry said.

“Yeah! Good idea!” Seamus said. “Tell me what the bloody ‘ell I’m supposed to ‘ave done!”

“You told Umbridge about our Defence club,” Ron bellowed.

“Ron!” Hermione said.

“Bugger off, Weasley! Why would I tell that bitch anything?” Seamus demanded.

Hermione sighed exasperatedly: “Ronald, let _me_ explain it to him. Seamus, Umbridge put up a notice today disbanding all the student organisations. They all have to be re-approved by her. We think it’s because she found out about our Defence group and wants to stop it. We’re pretty sure no one _in_ the group told, and we’re also pretty sure you’re the only other person in school who knew.” That was true; she hadn’t even told Septima so far, not wanting to put extra pressure on her with Umbridge breathing down her neck. “And I doubt you would’ve told Umbridge, but if you told someone else who told her—”

“I didn’t tell anyone about your stupid club,” he cut in. “Weasley told me to keep me mouth shut or else, don’t you know? Merlin’s beard, it’s like you’ve _all_ gone barmy.”

“What if you’re lying?” Ron said.

“Ron, chill,” Harry said before Hermione could chastise him again.

“‘Cause I knew you’d go nutters on me like this,” Seamus said.

“I don’t know, Harry,” Ron said. “Say, Hermione, what if we make him sign the contract?”

“Ron, I’m not going to _make_ anyone sign the contract. And it wouldn’t register anything from before he signed, anyway.”

“What contract?” Seamus asked.

Harry and Hermione glared at Ron. “Oops,” the redhead muttered.

Hermione rolled her eyes and turned to the Irish boy. “Seamus, I have an actual, serious question for you. Are you worried about failing your O.W.L. in Defence?”

She thought she saw a flicker of worry cross the boy’s face, but he answered, “Eh, not really. I mean, if everyone flunks, they’ll grade it on a curve, won’t they?”

“Maybe, but what if half the class gets secret training that the other half doesn’t?”

Seamus’s face fell. “Are you trying to get me to join your club?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. This “club” is practising spells that we’ll need for our O.W.L. that we aren’t learning in class. And before you ask, there’s no requirement that you have to believe Harry about Voldemort to join. There’s no requirement that you even have to like Harry. Harry and I are teaching it together, so you don’t even have to work with him if you don’t want to. All you’d be there for is passing your exams.”

“What’s the catch, Granger?” he said shrewdly.

“The catch is that if we let you in on where and when the meetings are, you could tell someone else where to find us, so you have to sign a magical contract not to tell.”

“Bugger that. I’m not signing a magical contract for you lot. Me mam didn’t even want me associating with Potter.”

Ron and Harry bristled, but Hermione waved them back. “You won’t even read it?” She pressed on, keeping her voice calm. “Susan Bones signed, and her aunt works for the Ministry.” She conveniently left out that Susan’s aunt wasn’t fond of the Minister.

“She did?” Seamus said in surprise.

“Yes, she did. And if you’re worried about Harry, I’m the one who wrote the contract, not him.”

Seamus sighed heavily and glanced at a still-intimidating Ron. “Well, I guess I can take a look.”

“Thank you, Seamus,” Hermione said. She pulled what appeared to be a sheet of notes from her robes and tapped her wand to it, saying, “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.” She’d thought something a little weightier than her usual motto was called for here. Seamus stared as the writing appeared.

“‘Dumbledore’s Army’? Are you serious?”

“It was Ginny’s idea,” Hermione said. “I wanted to call it the Defence Association.”

“You really want me to sign that?”

“No one will ever see it. We have as much interest in keeping it a secret as you. Do you want to pass your O.W.L. or not?”

Seamus grumbled a lot, but he read over the contract and found it wasn’t too onerous, and despite his leeriness around Harry, Hermione correctly surmised that even he didn’t like Umbridge much.

“Alright,” he decided. “But just to pass me O.W.L., you “ear?” He signed the contract.

 _Good, that_ _’s one less security flaw_ , Hermione thought. “Thank you very much, Seamus.”

“Yeah, well, you owe me one—” he said, and then he twigged on something else: “Wait a minute! All student organisations? Does that mean no more Quidditch?”

* * *

“She wouldn’t re-form the team?” Harry said in horror. “But I didn’t even say a word to her.”

“I know,” Angelina said.

“She re-formed all the others, didn’t she?” Hermione asked. She knew Umbridge had re-constituted the Slytherin Quidditch Team already. Draco Malfoy had been boasting about it earlier. She remembered because Harry, Ron, and Neville narrowly avoided detention with Snape when Malfoy said something that Neville took as a slight against his parents.

“Yeah, Slytherin, Ravenclaw, and Hufflepuff all got their teams back today.”

“What’s her problem?” Harry said. “Has she just got it in for Gryffindor?”

Angelina shook her head. “Remember what she said when you got detention? She told me she had “concerns about the composition of the team’…She’s trying to make me boot you from the team, Harry.”

“No!”

“You can’t!”

“Harry makes the whole team!”

“You can’t get rid of him!”

“I know! I know!” Angelina yelled over her teammates. “You can tell we don’t want to get rid of you, Harry. I told Umbridge we didn’t have anyone even close to your level to replace you with—no offence, Ginny—but she just said she needed more time to think it over.”

“Do you think she’ll do it?” Harry asked.

“I don’t know…Look, Harry, I really don’t want to take you off the team, especially seeing as it’s not your fault—this time—but if Umbridge doesn’t let up within a week or so, I’ll have to. We need time to practise before the first match.”

“Oh. Well, that’s just great,” Harry groaned.

“Sorry, Harry. But look on the bright side. It’s not like it can get much worse.”

He glared at her: “Sure it can. I’ve got Remedial Potions with Snape after dinner.”

“Remedial Potions?” Angelina gasped. “Good Lord how did _that_ happen. That’s cruel and unusual.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.”

* * *

The “Remedial Potions,” so far as Hermione could tell, did not go well. Harry had come back from his Occlumency lesson with Snape pale, nursing a headache, his scar inflamed (somehow), and even more irritable than usual. He didn’t really explain what the whole Occlumency thing was all about—he wasn’t in the mood to talk much at all, in fact—but he did relay to them that somehow, in the course of the lesson, he had realised that the dark corridor he had been dreaming about was actually the corridor that led to the Department of Mysteries in the Ministry. That led to a lively discussion of why he was dreaming about that corridor and what it meant, which ultimately concluded next to nothing, although Harry was of the opinion that whatever weapon Voldemort wanted was in there. That was plausible, but they had no evidence.

Hermione still didn’t really understand what Occlumency was. No one had clearly explained it to her beyond the fact that it was some kind of mental discipline, and it would help Harry block out the visions he was getting from Voldemort. It was apparently an obscure art—not widely practised and even less widely written about, so she couldn’t easily learn it from the library. She felt a little jealous of Harry for having the opportunity, but mostly confused and worried for him, especially with Professor Snape teaching him.

It was definitely odd. Dumbledore and _Sirius_ , of all people, wanted Harry to learn a new type of magic from _Snape?_ Because of his visions? That was one of the weirder things she’d seen in the magical world, and she’d seen a lot. She could feel for him; she still didn’t understand why Dumbledore was having so little to do with him this year. It had to be very frustrating.

Meanwhile, taking Alicia’s advice, Hermione approached Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis before going to Umbridge to re-form their study group, which they decided to do first thing the next morning. Umbridge didn’t exactly have office hours, but she could usually be found there when it wasn’t class or meal times, so they figured right before first class would be a good time to catch her.

“Come in,” the saccharine voice called when Hermione knocked on the door.

The three girls walked in and couldn’t help but stare at the decor.

 _So_ _…much…pink!_ Hermione thought. She wasn’t so much of a girly-girl herself, but she thought even Lavender would overdose on pink in this room. _And really? Fluffy kittens?_ The walls were covered with pictures of them. Hermione wasn’t sure what that said about Umbridge that she could have an office like this and be so cruel…or have an office like this at all, for that matter. Maybe they could get her sacked for being crazy. Ha! If only.

“Miss Granger—” Umbridge said sharply before she noticed the other two and became curious. “And Miss Greengrass and Miss Davis. What brings you to my office today?”

Greengrass stepped forward. Umbridge seemed to like her best, and they agreed she should be their spokeswoman. “Professor, we have a study group we’d like to ask your permission to restart.”

“A study group?” Umbridge said in surprise, looking them over. “I was not aware of any study group involving your two houses.”

“It was a very recent thing, Professor. We’ve only been meeting the past few weeks. It’s been very informal, really.”

“However, it _is_ a regular meeting of three students, ma’am,” Hermione added, “so under Educational Decree Twenty-Five, we need your authorisation to continue it.”

Naturally, Umbridge gave her a suspicious look, but they were clearly following the rule to the letter, so there was nothing she could say. What was it that Orwell said? Hermione thought. Keep the small rules, and you can break the big ones, or something like that?

“I see,” Umbridge said. “And what is the subject of this study group, Miss Greengrass?”

“Whatever we’re working on at the time, ma’am.” They had decided it would be best not to limit it. “Although the majority of the time, we’ve been helping Granger with Charms, and she’s been helping us with Arithmancy.”

Umbridge gave Hermione a suspicious look: “And what program are you using for the Arithmancy studies?”

“The fifth year curriculum, of course, ma’am,” Hermione said.

“Including the practical exercises?”

“To the extent we can in the library. Those _are_ included in the curriculum set by the Wizarding Examinations Authority, Professor.”

Umbridge did her level best to find some fault with the group. She asked them where and when their meetings were. Did they have any other members? Were they planning to bring in any? Did they have any membership requirements? But they didn’t say anything that she could use to deny them, and why would they? It really was just a study group. If it had been mostly Gryffindors, she might still have used her arbitrary power to deny it, but she did seem to like the Slytherins, so she went ahead and wrote up their approval just in time for them to get to class.

* * *

“Did you ask her about the Gryffindor Team while you were there?” Angelina asked Hermione at lunch.

“I’m sorry Angelina. It didn’t seem like the time with Greengrass and Davis there. Plus I didn’t want to jeopardise our chances in front of them by bringing up what was sure to be a sore topic.”

“Well, that’s all well and good for _you_ ,” she huffed. “I’m still sitting on a Quidditch team that can’t play! You ought to do something for your house.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. This wasn’t her job. “Look, if you think it will help, which I doubt, I’ll speak to her about it, but why don’t you just go to Professor McGonagall?” she said.

“I did. Umbridge just said the same thing to her. She needed to think about it some more.”

“She’s probably not going to bend, you know,” Hermione concluded. “To hear Professor Vector tell it, Umbridge will manipulate any rule she has to to get what she wants, and right now, she wants to stick it to Harry—”

“So you just want me to quit the team?” Harry snapped at her.

“I— _no_ , Harry, I don’t _want_ you to. I’m just saying that Umbridge can probably push harder than you can.”

“So we’ll have to play without our best player,” Angelina grumbled. “Great.”

“I’m sorry, Angelina. Sometimes, politics screws you over like that. We’re fighting it the best we can, at least…You know,” Hermione had a thought, “in the muggle world, if a school did something this blatantly unfair, and if people cared enough about it, they’d write letters to the editor in the newspaper. Or write to the Board of Governors.”

“But Fudge is controlling the _Daily Prophet_ ,” Harry said. “They won’t print any letters.”

“They don’t have to, but Fudge still has to worry to public opinion. If enough parents write in to complain, _someone_ will notice.”

“Hmm…you know, that could be a pretty good idea, Hermione,” George said. “We could write Oliver, too. Without the Gryffindor Team, the professional teams will lose half their recruiting season.”

“That’s right,” Angelina said. “I didn’t even think of that. All the professional teams will be annoyed, and that’s a lot of money.”

“Yeah, but what if You-Know-Who-In-A-Cardigan intercepts our mail?” Fred asked.

Hermione snorted at the nickname, then was a little surprised that Fred was being the practical one here. She considered the problem it for a minute. “Write the letters anyway,” she decided. “It’ll look suspicious if she doesn’t see anything. Her finding out isn’t the problem. It’s getting the messages through. I have a couple of people I can contact without fear of interception who can spread the word if all else fails.” She was mainly thinking of Sirius and Mr. Weasley, since she could send Dobby to Grimmauld Place. Sirius certainly had the clout to contact all the professional teams.

“You know, that just might work,” Angelina agreed. “Let’s do it. Everyone spread the word to the rest of Gryffindor. And maybe Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, if they’ll go for it.”

Hermione smiled. Umbridge may have foiled her direct efforts, but there were still ways for the people to make their voice known in this society.

* * *

As it happened, Hermione decided to call Harry alone to come to the Room of Requirement early that Saturday night. Part of her motive was to cheer him up after the past week, but she also had more practical considerations.

“I only wanted to share this spell with you, at least to start with,” she told him. “That’s both because it’s a powerful and dangerous curse, and because…well, I thought it would be fitting if it was mostly your spell.”

“Why?” Harry said in confusion. “Why _not_ tell the others?”

“You can if you want, but I thought you should see it—” She spun around and flourished her wand: _“Fulmina!”_ Suddenly, with a loud crack like a whip, but louder, a bolt of lightning shot from her wand and leapt ten feet through the air before dissipating.

“Whoa!” Harry said, flinching back.

“Yes, I know. I just thought…if you wanted lightning to be your thing—with the scar, you know. There are other spells that do the same thing, of course, but with my knowledge of electromagnetism, I made some improvements.”

Harry blushed and ruffled his hair self-consciously. “Er…I never really thought about it that way. So, it’s dangerous?”

“It’s a curse, Harry. Of course it’s dangerous. It shouldn’t kill a healthy adult, but it’s still too much to do human trials. The main thing is it packs a bigger punch than _Stupefy_ , and it’s faster. But on the other hand, its effective range is pretty short. Close quarters only.”

That wasn’t ideal, but he quickly made his decision: “Well, it still would’ve been useful last June. Let’s do it.”

The Lightning Curse was harder than a lot of the other curses she had taught him, but Harry was a quick study, and she managed to get him passable in it before the rest of the D.A. arrived.

 _Why do we call it_ _“the” D.A.?_ she thought idly. _That_ _’s what everyone’s calling it, but isn’t the “the” kind of redundant?_

Anyway, the full D.A. assembled, including Padma and Seamus. There were twenty-three of them, now, although Seamus didn’t look very happy to be there. Actually, quite a few of them looked nervous and were chatting quietly about the new Educational Decree. Hermione decided to start by drawing the lines clearly: “Good evening everyone. Yes, I know this new Educational Decree has a lot of us worried,” she told the group. “It worries me, to be honest, not least because I don’t know how Umbridge found out about us. And I want to be clear on this: by being here tonight, we are all technically committing an expellable offence. So if any of you want to back out, you should leave now—but you’ll still be bound by the contract not to talk about the group.”

She looked around. There were some fearful looks and nervous laughter, but no one made a move to leave—not even Seamus.

“Good,” she said. “I’m glad you all still came. It shows that you understand how serious Umbridge’s wilful lack of teaching is.” And really, would they actually expel twenty-three students? No, probably just the leaders: her and Harry. “So, since we’re throwing ourselves headfirst into rule-breaking, let’s get to it. Harry?”

Harry stepped forward: “So tonight is about basic incapacitation spells: Leg-Locker, Jelly-Legs, Body Bind, and so forth. If we have time, I want to work up to the Impediment Jinx. You don’t want to rely on them too much because they’re easy to cancel, and dark wizards certainly won’t hold back like that, but—”

“Yeah, because dark wizards are _such_ a big threat,” Seamus interrupted.

Silence fell. People looked back and forth between him and Harry. “Are you going to work with us tonight or not, Finnigan?” Harry asked, his voice hard.

“Hermione said I could come. Isn’t she supposed to be teaching, too?”

“Yes, and I’ll be happy to help you once we get started,” she said, “but I would urge you to listen to what he has to say.”

“I don’t need to listen to a nutter like Potter—” That was all he got out before half the D.A. shouted him down.

“Alright! Enough! _Enough_!” Hermione shushed them. “That’s enough. We don’t all have to agree, here. We’re just here to study for our exams, right?” They reluctantly nodded. “I just have one question for you, Seamus: you do remember, don’t you that the Ministry _does_ admit that Barty Crouch Jr is still on the loose?”

“That’s right,” Cedric spoke up. “I may not have seen You-Know-Who, but I definitely fought Crouch.” He waved his mechanical arm for emphasis.

“Well…yeah,” Seamus agreed.

“So there _are_ still dark wizards out there,” Hermione said. “You ought to prepare to defend yourself against them. I’ll work with you if you want to steer clear of Harry.”

Seamus grumbled a little.

“What was that?” she asked.

“I said do you even duel? I thought you were all about numbers and stuff.”

She glared at him: “You may not like Harry, Seamus, but you have to admit, he cleaned up in the Triwizard Tournament, and I was the one who trained him as much as I could last year.”

“It’s true,” Cedric agreed. “She taught me _and_ Harry spells that saved us in June.”

“Or we could just try a practice duel,” Hermione said innocently.

Seamus arched an eyebrow. As much as he didn’t want to be there, it seemed he _was_ up for a challenge. The rest of the D.A. backed away from them, and Hermione reached for her wand, but when she laid her hand on the handle, she stopped. Something didn’t feel quite right. She done a little bit of duelling this year, but this was her first…well, not quite an “honour duel,” but something close to it—her first since she bought her second wand—the wand Ollivander said was a duellist’s wand. It was almost like it was calling to her. She didn’t believe Ollivander’s line that wands had minds of her own, but even so, it didn’t feel right to neglect it at a time like this. She drew her handsome red oak wand instead and held it in her left hand. Seamus didn’t seem to notice anything out of place. She thought she heard Harry start to say something, but she turned and winked at him to stop him. At a motion from her, Harry counted them off, and they duelled.

Not having ever duelled left-handed before, Hermione was slow and clumsy—not nearly as bad as most people would be left-handed, but her aim was off, her wand motions were sluggish, and her spells occasionally fizzled. On the other hand, she knew quite a few more spells than Seamus even without dipping too deep into her personal creations, including a basic Shield Charm that could hold his hexes off for a few moments and give her time to think. She knew her style needed some work. She had a few staple hexes and her Shield Charm that she could automatically cast while she was dodging or thinking about what stronger spells she could throw at him. She couldn’t really throw a chain of creative spells, and she was stuck on the defensive, barely holding off Seamus’s attacks and unable to get in many of her own.

“Ready to give up, Granger?” Seamus smirked.

Hermione smiled. She’d been waiting to use this one. “I admit it,” she said between spells, “you are better than I am.”

Seamus’s eyes narrowed: “Then why are you smiling?”

“Because I know something you don’t know.”

“And what is that?”

“I am not left-handed!” With a flourish, she swapped her wand to her right hand and started casting with nearly twice the speed and accuracy as before. Seamus’s eyes widened, and he was so caught off guard that she dispatched him with just a few spells.

The D.A. stared in amazement. Some applauded. Some started to ridicule Seamus, but Hermione graciously helped him up. He looked pretty chagrined, but she thought she had earned his (albeit grudging) respect.

“So, um…about that teaching?” he said.

* * *

Dolores Umbridge felt confusion more than anything else as she entered the Ministry on Monday morning. She had been all set for another perfectly dreadful day as a teacher when she received an urgent owl from Cornelius asking if she could please come up and see him before her classes started to discuss their plans. Dolores thought their plans were pretty clear and didn’t see what could have gone wrong. Perhaps it was good news. Perhaps he had found a new angle to take down Dumbledore. Wouldn’t that be nice? But whatever it was, she went down to London. Truth be told, it was good to get out of that castle for a little while.

Cornelius didn’t look uncommonly happy when she reached his office, so it wasn’t likely to be good news. But it didn’t look especially bad, either. He just had that same beleaguered look he’d had since Dumbledore had started his scheme in June.

“Terribly sorry to pull you away from your breakfast, Dolores,” he said as she took her seat. “Toast?”

“Thank you, Cornelius,” she said, taking a slice. This was what she liked so much about her boss. He was polite, considerate, and knew how to treat his faithful right.

“I know you’re very busy, so I’ll get right to it,” he said. “I understand that with the latest Educational Decree, you have delayed in re-forming the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.”

 _Huh?_ Well, _that_ wasn’t what she expected. “Um, yes. I’ve held off on re-forming it.”

“And was there a particular reason you did so when you re-formed the other teams immediately?”

“Certainly. I’m hoping to pressure McGonagall and the team captain to let Potter go. I think they’ll do it before the first match, and then I can use letting him back on the team as a bargaining chip—if he’ll listen to reason, of course.”

“Aha…” Cornelius nodded knowingly and cracked a bit of a smile. “I see. That’s a very clever idea, Dolores. Very clever…which is why I’m so sorry I have to tell you to drop it.”

“Wha—wha— _what?_ Cornelius, why on _earth_ —”

Cornelius dropped a stack of letters on his desk. “I’m afraid you’ve attracted a bit too much attention with this one. These are all letters that Barnabas Cuffe received in the past week saying that it’s unfair of you to single out one team for extra scrutiny. I kept them out of print, of course, but I can’t ignore them.”

Dolores looked at the stack with wide eyes. She flipped through a couple of them. Some were polite. Some were angry. Some were most definitely from parents and not students. This was worrying. She’d intercepted more than a few letters going out from the school complaining about the Quidditch team, and while she didn’t doubt some had slipped through, she didn’t think there would be enough for such a large response.

“Lovely, aren’t they?” Cornelius said sarcastically. “They’re not just from students, or even parents, for that matter. I’ve got half the professional teams complaining about this cutting into their recruitment.”

“The professional teams?”

“Yep. You can guess what they’re saying. No good reason, hurting recruitment, harmless national past-time. They’re not happy. You can see why we have to back off on this one.”

This was bad. Potter or _someone_ had outflanked her. Time for damage control. In her sweetest voice, she said, “I’m terribly sorry I’ve caused this much trouble Cornelius. I had no idea this would go so far. But even so, I think if you can buy me another week, I can make McGonagall break.”

“I wish I could, Dolores, but you know how fast news travels in this country. And not just through the papers; the Quidditch teams have their own mouthpieces. We’d be playing a risky game, even if McGonagall _doesn_ _’t_ know about this campaign, and knowing her, she probably does, and she’ll stand her ground. Lovely idea, Dolores, but you’ll have to get to Potter some other way.”

Some other way. _Well_ , if that was the way she had to play the game, she’d damn well play it. She’d bloody well _find_ another way. “Of course, Cornelius,” she said, still forcing a smile. I’m sure I can work something out. I’ll handle the paperwork this morning.”

“Jolly good, then. And don’t worry. We’ll get them in the end.”

Dolores returned to Hogwarts in a dark mood. As loathe as she was to do it, she quietly told McGonagall before the first class that she was giving permission to re-form the team, to which she graciously thanked her for her change of heart. Naturally, the whole school knew by lunch, and the Gryffindors were obnoxiously patting each other on the back over it. Dolores didn’t know exactly how her plan had fallen apart, but she had a strong suspicion that Potter and his co-conspirators were smack in the middle of it. To add insult to injury, Potter was so happy in her class that she couldn’t make him step out of line no matter how much she needled him.

And she really didn’t like the smug look that Mudblood Granger was giving her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Educational Decrees so far:  
> #21: Limits accreditation to prevent students from going to school overseas.  
> #22: Allows the Ministry to fill vacant teaching positions at Hogwarts.  
> #23: Creates the position of High Inquisitor.  
> #24: Gives the High Inquisitor supreme authority over punishments.  
> #25: Bans unauthorised student organisations.
> 
> Labyrinthitis: medical term for inflammation of the inner ear, based on the Greek for “disease of the maze.” Credit to rdbrown1 and guest reviewer Elizabeth for this idea.
> 
> Fulmina: Latin for “strike with lightning.” Credit to KhazintheDark and Harry Potter and Ice Cream Delights by Luckner for this idea.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling can read your mind…or is that what she wants you to think?
> 
> Dumbledore’s plan for Harry’s Occlumency lessons is partially based on Josie Kearns’s essay on The Order of the Phoenix on the Harry Potter Companion blog.
> 
> Thanks to Guest reviewer ChiSig for a slightly different perspective on Umbridge that helped to improve this chapter.

“Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Miss Granger?” Umbridge asked.

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. She hadn’t even said anything. “No, Professor,” she answered.

“Come now, surely a student as _brilliant_ as you must have something to say on this subject.”

Okay, this was a bad sign. Maybe she should have been a bit more careful about flaunting her victory. “I think we’ve already exhausted the discussion about my position on the course book, ma’am,” Hermione said evenly.

“Oh really?” Umbridge said with a grin. “And you seemed so talkative before. I almost would have thought you meant to teach the class yourself.”

 _She knows!_ Hermione thought. _She must not have proof, or she_ _’d have acted already, but she knows._ “I…have a tendency to be very opinionated, Professor. But, honestly, Defence isn’t really my top subject.”

“No, of course not. That would be Arithmancy and Transfiguration—allegedly.”

Hermione bristled. “I think my published research speaks for itself.”

“Research undertaken with far more distinguished academics, Miss Granger?” She gave one of her false giggles. “I think we’ve already been over that subject as well.”

“Some of those were sole author papers.”

“So you say. Whether you were truly responsible for that research is between you and your…collaborators, isn’t it?”

“Professor Vector will vouch for my integrity,” Hermione snapped. “And she and Rebecca Gamp will confirm the importance of my contribution to our recent joint project. If you want to question my work, you’ll have to—”

“That’s enough!” Umbridge snapped. “Five points from Gryffindor for your excessive interruptions, Miss Granger.”

Hermione suppressed an eye roll. Umbridge was the one who had interrupted in the first place. The rest of the class proceeded without incident.

Despite Hermione’s Umbridge troubles, though, with her victory in getting the Quidditch team reinstated, she finally had time to work on her other pressing issue, which was, what on earth was going on with Harry’s Occlumency lessons?

Harry consistently became agitated when he was reminded of his lessons with Professor Snape. Maybe it was just Snape, but that didn’t seem like a good sign, either. Hermione still didn’t really understand it, and Harry never wanted to talk about it, so it was time to try the library. She’d already looked a little over the past week, looking into visions, dreams, mind healing, meditation, and anything else she could think of that was “mental,” and what she’d found told her that any detailed material would be in the Restricted Section. So she ran up to Septima’s office before dinner to get a pass to browse the Restricted Section. That wasn’t hard at this point since Septima trusted her to be responsible with powerful magic. Hermione just gave her a few vague reasons why she wanted in there that were related to her Arithmancy research and none of which were really false, and Septima wrote her a blank check. Fortunately, Umbridge didn’t have the power to veto that…yet.

Okay, it wasn’t completely a blank check. Septima would be sent a list of any books Hermione actually checked out, and she (and probably Umbridge) could veto them individually, but it was good enough.

Unfortunately, it was hard to find anything even in the Restricted Section. Hermione spent a lot of her free time on Monday evening and again on Tuesday and Wednesday poking around and found mostly references and few details. Occlumency was unhelpfully defined as the defence against something called Legilimency. Legilimency was even harder to find than Occlumency, and was usually described as an “invasion” or “attack” on the mind. It didn’t seem to be the same as the Imperius Curse, the Confundus Charm, or various other mind-altering charms, seeing as it was sometimes listed alongside them in a list of “Mind Magics.” Occlumency was supposed to offer some degree of protection against all of those things, but most especially against Legilimency. Harry’s visions _did_ seem to qualify as an attack on his mind, so at least that fit.

While it wasn’t clear what Occlumency was supposed to protect against, there _were_ descriptions of Occlumency floating around, but surprisingly, it was mostly described in terms of esoteric mental exercises and meditative techniques to the point where she wasn’t sure it was actual magic at all. Harry never seemed very calm or meditative when he returned from his lessons with Snape, but then, having to study it with Snape probably wasn’t conducive to a calm and meditative state of mind. Either way, Harry seemed even crankier than usual, which, again, was not a good sign. She tried to question him about it, but he still didn’t want to talk about it, and he snapped at everyone who asked. It didn’t seem like it was doing him much good, but all she could do was keep researching and hope she found something useful.

* * *

Hermione’s life went on. In Defence class on Wednesday, Umbridge decided to single her out again. (What _was_ it about this week?)

“Miss Granger, what would you say is the optimal way of defending oneself against a basilisk?”

Okay, this was getting weird, she thought. Hermione’s and her friends’ “adventure” at the end of second year hadn’t got a lot of play, but it _had_ been in the Cursebreaking circulars, so Umbridge might know about it, but even so, what was she doing bringing it up? Unsure of what to do, Hermione decided to give the “correct” answer rather than the _correct_ answer: “Like all class five-X creatures, Wilbert Slinkhard’s recommended response to a basilisk is Apparating away very fast.”

A few people giggled, but Umbridge didn’t: “That is indeed what the book says, but you did not answer my question. What do _you_ think the optimal method is?”

What on earth was she playing at? “Actually, ma’am, I think I have to agree with Mr. Slinkhard on this one.”

A few quills clattered in surprise. Harry and Ron snapped out of their bored, half-asleep stance to stare at her. Umbridge grinned. “How _interesting_ ,” she said. “But didn’t you write a paper on that very subject, Miss Granger? Are you doubting your own research?”

Oh. _That_ _’s_ what she was playing at. Hermione hesitated. She had to choose her words carefully to save face and not undermine her own point. “Not at all, ma’am, but that was a highly unusual situation in which safer avenues of action were closed to us. I have…I have never disputed that discretion is sometimes the better part of valour, and facing a class five-X creature is a prime example of a situation in which it is better to get away and call in the professionals, in possible. Where I think Mr. Slinkhard errs is in ignoring the fact that there are sometimes situations where—”

“So you stand by your assertion that you found a better way of subduing a basilisk at age twelve?”

“Thirteen, ma’am, and I never said it was better. I said that—excuse me, I don’t remember my exact wording—but I believe I said that it would be a lifesaving safety measure and would be a useful addition to other methods. I have corresponded with cursebreakers in India who used my method in the field, and—”

Umbridge cut her off again before she could make an advantageous point. She really wasn’t giving any ground today. “So we have a rather ill-advised method of dealing with magical creatures, a trivial potions insight that anyone could have made if they’d been troubled to bother, and a few useless toy spells making up your alleged sole author papers, Miss Granger.”

Merlin’s beard, Umbridge had read her entire _curriculum vitae_ to try to discredit her work! Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be proud or sick. “I’m not sure I understand what this has to do with Defence, Professor,” she said nervously.

“I’m merely endeavouring to give your classmates a balanced assessment of your academic abilities. Since you seem to think you know so much more than the students and staff at this school.”

Hermione saw red. She knew Umbridge was trying to undermine her academics, but this was her entire career she was playing with. Finally deciding enough was enough, she snapped, “Griselda Marchbanks said I had the best Arithmancy N.E.W.T. she’d ever seen. As a fourth-year. You can ask her yourself if you don’t believe me.”

Umbridge didn’t miss a beat: “Griselda Marchbanks is one hundred and thirty years old, and her competence as head of the Wizarding Examinations Authority is already under review for other reasons.” By which they both knew she meant Marchbanks’s opposition to the Ministry’s interference at Hogwarts. “You _may_ have been good enough to pass the exam, but you should take what she says personally with a large pinch of salt.”

“The staff at _Transfiguration Today_ and _Annals of Arithmancy_ think my work is deserving of the Gamp and Wenlock Prizes,” Hermione said. “At least enough to nominate me.”

Umbrige’s smile returned: “Even the best scholars can be fooled from time to time, Miss Granger.”

* * *

Hermione decided to talk to Harry about his Occlumency lessons after he got back that night. She’d let it go so far, but she decided she really needed some straight answers. And truth be told, after her encounter with Umbrige, she wasn’t in a mood to take no for an answer. They were still waiting on Harry to get back, though, when Fred and George burst into the Common Room with big grins on their faces. When George spotted her, he lifted her out of her seat and kissed her.

“Jackpot, Hermione!” he yelled.

“Er, what’s this, now?” she said.

“The other puffskein we were trying to breed Cyrano with had her kits.”

“Oh. That’s nice…I take it from your reaction you got some more dwarfs out of it?”

“We think so. It’s kinda hard to tell when they’re babies. But that’s not the best part. You know how the mother was a Fancy Red?”

“Yeah?”

“Well, the babies all came out pink and purple!”

Hermione stared at him blankly. She was happy for her boyfriend, but she had no frame of reference for _why_ he was so happy. “So that’s good, then?” she asked.

“Good? It’s unheard of!” Fred jumped in.

“See, there hasn’t been that much experimental breeding of puffskeins besides the few fancy breeds,” George explained.

“Granted, the market’s too small to do much of that,” Fred continued.

“Yeah, only a few dozen a year in Britain—a few hundred in Europe.”

“The point is, they’ll sell even better in weird colours.”

Now _that_ explained a few things. “So it _is_ good, then,” she said. “Alright, when the kits are old enough to breed, you’ll want to out-cross with other puffskeins as much as possible. And standard breeding practice is never to cross a dwarf with another dwarf. But even so, if you do it right, half of the kits should be dwarfs.” At least, that’s how it was with dogs and cats, and she was pretty sure the genetics of the most common forms of human dwarfism were similar, but she really couldn’t guess how it would be for magical creatures.

“Right, we get the picture, Hermione,” George said indulgently. “The important question is—”

“Do you wanna go see them?” Fred finished.

“Oh, very well.” As long as they were back by curfew…

They got up and were just about to leave when Harry stumbled into the Common Room. With a groan, he flopped onto the nearest sofa, rubbing his forehead above his right eye.

“Ooh, rough night? Budge up.” Ginny slid onto the end of the sofa so she could put his head in her lap.

Harry groaned loudly. “I think it’s getting worse.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean before, my scar only prickled once in a while. It’s been practically all the time this week.”

“Really? Do you think you’re making any progress?” Hermione said worriedly.

Harry shrugged as much as he could in that position. “It doesn’t feel like it. I’ve been dreaming about that damn corridor every night since we started.”

“Well, that’s not good. Professor Dumbledore wants you to stop having those visions. Have you at least been practising?”

“Er…kinda—”

“Harry! You have to put the work in—”

“Hey! Take it easy,” Ginny stopped her. “Harry’s having a rough time of it. I _do_ want you to get better at this, though,” she told him softly. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

“I’m trying!” Harry insisted. “You give it a go, having Snape try to get inside your head. It’s just like in Potions; he doesn’t explain anything. He just says, ‘Clear your mind’ and attacks.”

 _Get inside your head?_ Hermione thought. That was a different way of putting it. And that didn’t sound like the kind of training she saw in the books.

“Huh…” Ron said. “I wonder…d’you reckon maybe Snape’s _trying_ to make it worse. You know, make it easier for You-Know-Who to attack you?”

“That’s ridiculous!” Hermione snapped. “Snape’s part of the Order. Dumbledore trusts him.” But that was a knee-jerk reaction if she were honest with herself. It _did_ sound eerily plausible. Snape was a double agent, and the evidence was Harry really was getting worse. “It must be doing _some_ good,” she insisted. “Maybe you’re getting more sensitive to the attacks?”

“I doubt it,” Harry said. “Snape never said anything about that. And it’s always pretty obvious when he uses Legilimency on me to start with.”

“What _is_ Legilimency, anyway?”

“It’s mind-reading.”

 _“Mind-reading?”_ she said in surprise.

“Well, Snape _insists_ it’s not mind-reading, but it’s basically mind-reading,” he said with a weak smile.

That was bad. That was way beyond what the books implied…or maybe she just hadn’t _wanted_ to believe it. She had a bad feeling about this. “How does it work?” she asked.

“Well, he casts this spell, and then he’s inside my head, going through my memories and stuff. It’s supposed to require eye contact.”

Alarm bells were going off in Hermione’s head one after another. “But you don’t have eye contact with Voldemort. What’s going on with him?”

“Apparently, I’m getting visions and emotions and stuff from him some other way, and Dumbledore’s worried he could use it to get to me, make me do things…Snape said something about him reading my mind back.”

Hermione turned ashen as the wall of denial she’d built came crashing down.

“Hermione?” Ginny said.

_“HE WHAT?!”_

She screamed so loud that the entire Common Room stopped and stared, but she was too livid to care.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry said.

“What’s wrong? _What_ _’s wrong?_!” She stopped and looked around nervously, then unceremoniously hauled Harry up and started to drag him toward the stairs.

“Hey! I said lay off him!” Ginny said, pulling her away from him.

“Ginny, do you have any idea what this means?” Hermione hissed.

“Not unless you start acting sane and _tell_ me!”

“Not _here_!” she said. “We need to get somewhere _private_!”

Ginny gave an exasperated sigh and helped Harry up the stairs with her brothers following, which in retrospect was better than hexing her outright. When they finally reached Harry’s and Ron’s dorm, Ginny got in her face at once and said, “Honestly, Hermione, where’s the fire?”

“Hello, Ginny, Voldemort can read Harry’s mind!”

“Okay, okay, we get it! That’s bad!”

“ _Yes_ , it’s bad! Harry, how did you not think that was the most important thing about all this? Or important at all?”

Harry stared at the girl he considered his best friend in horror. He seldom saw her so angry, especially at him. What was happening to his life? Dumbledore was acting like he hated him, and now, Hermione started hating on him, too! Had everyone gone mental? “Calm down, will you?” he demanded. “It’s not like the world’s ending. My biggest secret is the Order of the Phoenix, and that’s under a Fidelius Charm, so Voldemort can learn that from me.”

“This isn’t about the Order of the Phoenix, Harry!” she raved. “I taught you my spells!”

 _Wait, what?_ “Um, yes, you taught me your spells.”

Hermione looked at him like he was an idiot child. “ _My_ spells, Harry—spells I didn’t want anyone else to know. Remember how you took down the dragon last year? _Dialego Kathar Magnesia?_ Or how about the Lightning Curse from Saturday? We were the only two people who knew those spells, and I kept it that way for a _reason_. But if Voldemort reads your mind, he could learn them, too. The Burning Laser Charm. The Eyelash-Curling Hex. Those are the two spells you and Cedric used to escape him last time. He might know those too by now. And then, there’s all the stuff we’ve been doing this year—Oh, God.” She felt faint. “Oh, God. Oh no no no no _no!_ The D.A.!”

“The D.A.?”

“ _That_ _’s_ how Umbridge found out about the D.A.!”

“What?” everyone said at once.

“Hermione, are you feeling alright?” George said.

“What’re you talking about?” Fred asked.

“What does Umbridge have to do with Voldemort?” Harry said. “She’s not a Death Eater. I thought she tried to disband all the clubs to push me off the Quidditch team.”

“Dammit, Harry, will you _think?_!” Hermione yelled. “We don’t know for sure why she did it. It couldn’t been about the D.A. even if she’s _not_ a Death Eater. Suppose Voldemort read your mind and found out about the D.A. and wanted to put a stop to it. It’s to his advantage if we can’t defend ourselves, isn’t it? So he tells Lucius Malfoy. Malfoy finds some way to tip off Fudge without telling him _how_ he knows, and Fudge tells Umbridge! What happens then?”

There was silence in the room except for Ron’s loud exclamation of “Bloody hell!”

Harry felt all eyes in the room painfully on him, even Ginny’s, which showed a hint of fear in them. God, she was turning _everyone_ against him! Hermione’s gaze was still accusatory, which really made his blood boil. “Well, it’s not like I _wanted_ to tell him anything!” he shouted. “I didn’t even _know_ before I started this mess! Dumbledore never told me!”

“Dumbledore…” she realised, and in a blink, she made the connections, and her anger found a new outlet. “Damn him, he never told anyone, that bastard!” She ran from the room. She heard Harry yelling in confusion behind her and was vaguely aware of several Weasleys sounding scandalised, but by the time she realised what was happening she was already out in the corridors, nearly running to reach the Headmaster’s Office. Fred and George had been sent there enough times to tell her that Dumbledore’s passwords were always sweets, so when she skidded to a stop in front of the gargoyle, she started calling out, “Sherbet lemon! Cockroach Clusters! Bertie Bott’s! Licorice Wands! Sugar Quills! Acid Pops! Fizzing Whizbees! Toffee Eclairs! Chocolate Frogs! Pumpkin Pasties! Fudge Flies! Ice Mice! Jelly Slugs!” _Why do we have such awful sweets?_ “Toothflossing stringmints! Treacle fudge! Mars Bars!”

Suddenly, the now-annoyed-looking gargoyle protecting the entrance to Dumbledore’s office stepped aside and allowed her to pass up the stairs.

“Mars Bars?” she said to herself. She’d been so worked up that she hadn’t even realised she’d slipped into muggle candy. But her ire returned when she saw the Headmaster’s confused face, and she realised he’d probably been listening the whole time.

“Miss Granger,” he said, “what _ever_ is so important that you would make such great efforts to overcome my security?”

“Voldemort can read Harry’s mind!” she shouted.

Dumbledore’s eyes briefly widened in surprise, but then, his countenance fell, and he sighed softly: “Please have a seat, Miss Granger.”

Hermione wasn’t in much of a mood to listen. “Did it ever occur to you that we might want to know—might _need_ to know that information, Professor?” She leaned across the back of the chair in front of her and tried to look intimidating. “That _we_ might have secrets that we confide in him that we don’t want Voldemort to find out?”

“I assure you that I have been wrestling with that very question since the beginning of summer. I thought it best that this information was known to as few as possible until now.”

“And look what you got from it,” she laid into him. “I’ve been blithely teaching Harry new spells I invented that I wanted to keep _secret_. For Merlin’s sake, I taught him a spell to incapacitate a dragon in one shot. I didn’t even show that one to Septima in detail, and now, that and all the other spells I’ve taught him are potentially compromised.”

It was unconscionable, she thought. Here she was, running around and doing everything she _thought_ she needed to do to keep her secrets safe, and _it still wasn_ _’t enough!_ She was going to wind up as paranoid as Moody at this rate. “I trusted you, Professor. I trusted you that Harry would be safe with his aunt and uncle, even though he hates it there, and what happened? Bloody dementors! And—” Something else clicked for her. “— _and_ you didn’t tell me about the letters, either! You asked me not to write Harry with sensitive information because owls could be intercepted, but that wasn’t it at all was it? It was because Voldemort could learn it from Harry. But you apparently didn’t trust me enough to tell me, and I went right on writing him through Dobby because you never saw fit to tell me why I shouldn’t. This has been a security risk for _months!_ Why didn’t you do something about this sooner?” The words poured out of her, unable to stop. She hadn’t realised until just now how much of her faith in Albus Dumbledore had been shattered.

So far, Dumbledore hadn’t said anything in his defence, not that he suspected his student had noticed. Now, Albus Dumbledore was, unequivocally, a genius. More to the point, he was the sort of man who could keep up two independent lines of thought at the same time. On one level, he was listening intently to Hermione’s tirade, as a good teacher should, no matter how it is delivered, but on another level, he was reevaluating his plans and considering new possibilities. Once she seemed to get all of her complaints off her chest, he calmly said, “Are you finished, Miss Granger?”

That disarming question was enough for Hermione to collapse into horrified realisation. She was screaming at her Headmaster! She’d been screaming at Harry! Merlin, he must feel awful now. She’d blown up at him about all the things he was already having problems with this year, and then, she’d blown up at the most powerful wizard in the world. Maybe she really _did_ have a temper than she needed to reign in. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry, Professor,” she gasped. “I don’t know what came over me.” She sank into the chair absently and buried her face in her hands.

“I may be going intermittently hard of hearing in my old age and did not hear any punishable offence,” Dumbledore replied. “Please take a deep breath, Miss Granger. I believe it would be beneficial for us to discuss this issue frankly, but I would urge you to try to calm yourself first. Sherbet lemon?”

“N-no thank you,” she murmured, not meeting his eyes. “I’m so sorry, Professor. All the stress with Voldmort, and the Ministry, and Umbridge, and having to be back here, and Harry’s detentions, and Umbridge—” She snapped her mouth shut as she realised she was rambling again. It was so easy to forget—or make that wilfully ignore—how much the stress could get to her. She hadn’t even realised how much it was weighing on her until now.

Dumbledore gave her a small smile: “It is not a sin to express our emotions honestly. It is only when we refuse to listen to others equally that we err.”

She kept her gaze lowered to the desk. “I was recently told that I have a strong vindictive streak, sir,” she said. “I should have…I should have stopped and thought before I did something rash.”

“Recognising our own faults is one of the most difficult things we can do, but also one of the most important,” he said. There was a short pause, and she chanced a look up to see Dumbledore gazing with a far-off, wistful look, but it vanished almost instantly. “I will admit that I have made mistakes with Harry. And I have made decisions that I still believe are correct that my closest confidantes strongly disagreed with. I did not consider how Harry’s plight would affect his friends and their concerns, and for that, I apologise. To answer your question, why didn’t I act sooner, I knew of a strange link between Harry and Voldemort as early as his first year, though I did not fully understand it until recently. However, I did not fear for the safety of Harry’s mind until Voldemort regained his full strength. Until then, Harry was the stronger of the two, and his secrets were safe. ’

Hermione started to put the pieces together: “And after that, you _did_ act. You’ve been avoiding him. You were cold towards him. You wouldn’t talk to him. You wouldn’t look him in the—” Oh no, she had a bad feeling about this. “Why won’t you look Harry in the eye, Professor?”

Another pause. He seemed to consider for a moment or two. “Since you have come this far, I take it you know what Legilimency is?” he asked. She nodded. “You may then have heard that Legilimency nearly always requires eye contact.”

And the obvious corollary to that was: “You believe Voldemort could read _your_ mind _through Harry_.”

Dumbledore didn’t answer that, but he didn’t really need to.

Hermione felt her hands shaking. She felt an urge to scream at him again, but she forced it down. She counted to twenty, took a deep breath, and repeated her original question: “Why didn’t you do something about this sooner, Professor? Why not have Harry learn Occlumency at the beginning of summer? And why Professor Snape? According to Harry, he’s not teaching very well—maybe even making it worse.”

“Worse?” The Headmaster raised an eyebrow at her.

“He says his scar hurts more than it did before he started. He always comes back from his lessons with a headache and looking like he has the flu. And what little I could find on Occlumency in the library talks about it like meditation, and I don’t think Professor Snape would be good at…you know that I’ve complained about his teaching before, sir—vague directions with no help on methods or techniques.”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and examined the girl’s face closely. He could easily deduce the things she hadn’t said: she was worried about the possibility of Voldemort reading her own mind through Harry. She had spells and other secrets that she wasn’t ready even for him to know yet, and despite her young age, given her record so far, those spells could be truly valuable. She was understandably concerned about Severus’s loyalty. She had been browsing the Restricted Section for Occlumency and probably Legilimency and other powerful magic as well. And she probably knew he knew all that. He nodded to himself. Yes, this might well be worth the risk. “Miss Granger,” he said solemnly, “it might interest you to know that Remus informed me at once at the beginning of the school year when you told him you wished to help with our war effort.”

“He did?” Hermione said with wide eyes. She was too surprised to ask what that had to do with anything.

“He did indeed, and he recommended you quite highly. I had not thought much on it because you are not yet of age, or even a fully qualified witch. But I think it is time I gave you a bit more consideration.”

“Um…th-thank you, Professor.”

“You’re quite welcome. But I warn you, Miss Granger, if you involve yourself in the Order’s business, you will have to learn how to keep secrets—much more than you are accustomed to keeping, especially from Harry.”

“So you _do_ think Voldemort would try to read my mind through him?” she asked.

“That is a difficult question. You have already performed extraordinary feats of magic that must surely have attracted Voldemort’s attention. Yet even given that, I suspect that in his arrogance, he will not consider a sixteen-year-old muggle-born to be worth his time. On the other hand, _Harry_ values you very highly, and Voldemort will likely know this, and given Harry’s estimation of you, he may reevaluate you.”

That was roughly as she’d suspected, which was bad news. After all, she had spells she hadn’t shared with _anyone_ and would prefer to keep that way. “I understand keeping secrets, Professor,” she said. “What I don’t understand is keeping Harry in the dark and unprepared. I…honestly, your actions make no sense, and I’d like some answers.”

He gave her another small smile: “I sympathise with your concerns. Unfortunately, the situation is more complex that you realise. When Harry had his recent vision revealing Voldemort’s actions to him, I knew the matter could wait no longer. Voldemort has most likely become aware of the connection between the two of them, and he will likely begin to use it to try to influence Harry’s actions. This must not happen. Therefore, Harry must learn Occlumency.”

“Then why didn’t you—?”

“I did not start sooner, however, because I had and _still have_ no suitable teacher for him,” Dumbledore said, to her bewilderment. He explained, “There are three people whom I trust implicitly and who have the skill to teach Harry Occlumency: Severus Snape, Alastor Moody, and myself. As for Moody, his paranoia has got the better of him. He steadfastly refuses to teach Harry so long as Professor Snape and I are still alive. I cannot teach Harry myself because it would risk giving Voldemort access to _my_ mind, which would be disastrous. That leaves only Professor Snape, but that carries another problem you may not have thought of.”

“You mean besides his dislike of Harry and his questionable teaching skills?” she asked, wondering what else there could possibly be.

“As a matter of fact, I do. Professor Snape, as you know, is a double agent in Voldemort’s organisation, and Voldemort _does not want_ him to teach Harry Occlumency.”

“But if he did it in secret—” she started, but then caught herself. “Except Voldemort could read Harry’s mind.”

“Correct. If Voldemort sees Professor Snape teaching Harry Occlumency, it will put Professor Snape’s status as a double agent, not to mention his life, in jeopardy.”

“But how can you ask him to teach him, then?” Hermione exploded. “How does that even _work_?”

“The decision, though difficult, was a straightforward one, Miss Granger…I merely asked Professor Snape to continue his usual teaching style.”

“His usual teaching style?” she said. “But his usual teaching style is—” She stopped and closed her eyes and leaned forward until her forehead hit the desk with a thud. “You…ordered…Professor Snape…to teach Harry Occlumency… _badly_ ,” she groaned. No wonder Harry wasn’t learning. Snape actually wasn’t trying. Leaning back again, she took a calming breath and continued, “How do I put this _tactfully_ , Professor…? What sodding good does that do?!”

She worried a bit that Dumbledore was growing impatient with her attitude, but he still answered her question calmly: “It _does_ do us good, Miss Granger, because even if Harry learns little Occlumency, he will at least be put on guard. He will be aware that the visions Voldemort may send him—visions to induce him to act recklessly or expose himself, will likely be a trap.”

“Then why don’t you just _tell_ him that, sir?” she demanded.

“But how would I know?”

“Um…Wait, what?”

“How would I know that Voldemort intends to trap Harry so that I may warn him to be wary of it? Of course, I could speculate, but knowing Harry as I do, I believe more than mere speculation will be needed to impress upon him the importance of such a warning. Likewise, I have deduced much on my own, but I do not wish to reveal the full extent of my information-gathering powers to Voldemort if I can help it. So where else could I have learnt of Voldemort’s plans except from my spy in his ranks?”

Good Lord, this was getting complicated. “So, if Voldemort reads Harry’s mind and finds out what you told him,” she reasoned, “he would question how _you_ found out…and he would suspect Professor Snape of telling you more than he was ‘supposed’ to.”

He nodded.

Her anger flared again: “So you send Harry to these…these sham lessons that leave him emotionally traumatised just so you can deliver your warning in a sufficiently roundabout way?”

“ _No_ , Miss Granger,” Dumbledore said sternly. “They are _not_ a sham. The lessons may not be good ones, but I have legitimate reasons for ordering them: the chance that Harry really will learn some amount of Occlumency, the fact that repeated experience with Legilimency will make him more likely to recognise it and to hesitate before trusting what he sees, the fact that Sirius would not take no for an answer. I am aware that having him learn from Professor Snape will be stressful, but I remain convinced that Harry will be better off having these lessons than not.”

Hermione slumped in the chair. The line of logic seemed a little strained—or perhaps over-cautious—but then again, she had no great love for Professor Snape and hadn’t seen him do much that was useful so far, so she was probably biased. “So where does that leave us?” she said. The whole thing seemed pretty futile at this point.

“It leaves us at the point where I believe you could help. How much have you learnt about Occlumency?”

“I tried to look it up in the library. There wasn’t much there, even in the Restricted Section, but I saw a lot of references to meditation, and to controlling thoughts and emotions. But that’s just the problem, Professor. Harry isn’t a very meditative person. He wears his emotions on his sleeve. And…well, you know how he and Professor Snape are towards each other. Professor Snape is probably worst possible person to teach it to him.”

“And do you believe you could teach Harry better, Miss Granger?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but no sound came out.

“I do not mean that rhetorically. And no, I do not mean for you to attempt to use Legilimency to teach him. I mean, could you teach Harry the meditative techniques that would be useful to him, and would he be more receptive to you than to Professor Snape?”

“I—I—Well, yes to both, sir. I…yes, definitely better than he’s doing now. I could even order some muggle books on the subject. Some psychologists use meditation, and a lot of Eastern religions use it, and—”

“That is good,” Dumbledore interrupted. “That is the sort of thing I am looking for. But the task I am asking is subtler than that. If you were to learn Occlumency yourself, do you believe you could steer Harry in the right direction—and this is the important part—without tipping him off to how much you know?”

“You—you _want_ me to learn Occlumency, sir.” She thought she might have misheard.

“I believe it would work to our advantage. It is an easy guess that _you_ want to learn Occlumency at this point.”

“I… _do_ , but if Professor Snape—”

“No, Miss Granger. Professor Snape must teach Harry because of his unique circumstances. You have no such problem. I am proposing that _I_ will teach you Occlumency.”

“ _Y-you_ , Professor?” she gasped.

“Yes. It will be a more involved process, of course. I have a good deal more memories that I must needs hide away, and we must be careful that Professor Umbridge not become suspicious of our activities. But I suspect that you will be a faster learner than Harry, and I will be able to use better teaching methods than will Professor Snape. You will then be able to use your knowledge to teach Harry to better prepare him for his meetings with Professor Snape.

“ _But_ this option comes at a cost,” he added before she could reply. “Since I was insufficiently clear this past summer, I will be plain now. Harry must not know of our arrangement. He must believe that you are grasping at straws with a few library references and muggle meditation techniques and that you are happening upon the correct ones by luck. You cannot tell him that you speak from authority when you teach him, even if he resists your instruction. In the same way, Harry must believe that you are pushing him out of a desire to keep your own secrets, not to thwart Voldemort’s plans, of which you ostensibly know nothing. Either truth could lead him to the truth of the arrangement I have made with Professor Snape, which cannot be allowed to happen.”

That was a sobering thought. Harry was hurting so much already, and she didn’t want to make it worse. This sounded an awful lot like the things she was yelling at Dumbledore for a few minutes ago. “I’m…I’m not so sure I can do that, sir. Keeping secrets is one thing, but…manipulating him like that? It would feel like betraying Harry. He’s been hurt so much by the lies already.”

“You of course do not have to do anything you don’t want to,” he said. “But you did ask to help the Order, and I am offering you an assignment, should you choose to accept it. Helping Harry learn Occlumency will be more useful than any spell or artifact I could plausibly ask you to create, but your secrecy is imperative. Information is our most valuable weapon against Voldemort, and one wrong move could ruin all our work.”

“I know. I understand where you’re coming from,” she said. She was the one who’d come in her raving about keeping her own secrets to begin with. Maybe it wasn’t really about the secrets, though. Maybe it was about Dumbledore’s attitude. “I’m just not sure I could hurt Harry like that after everything else he’s been through. He’s still my best friend, and I don’t want to alienate him any more than I have to.”

Dumbledore stroked his beard and regarded her carefully for a minute. She wondered if he was reading her mind. She doubted it; Harry said Snape was always blindingly obvious, but Dumbledore might be subtler. “Miss Granger, do you know the story of Alan Turing?” he said.

“Of course. He was a codebreaker during World War II, he basically invented the computer, he certainly derived the underlying logic of computers, and he did a lot of early work in artificial intelligence.”

“A fair summary. It is his work as a codebreaker that I wish to discuss. I met Alan Turing more than once during the war. I found him a handsome young man, if I do say so myself, and brilliant beyond most other muggles I’ve met, albeit very eccentric. I was most impressed by the way he broke the German Enigma code. Even in the magical world, our best Arithmancers had studied the machine and concluded that it was impossible to crack efficiently enough to be of use. But Dr. Turning solved it.

“What you may or may not know, Miss Granger, is that on the night Dr. Turing broke Enigma, he became privy to the movements of the entire German naval fleet. And yet, as much as he wanted to, he could not act on that information, not even to save lives, for to do so would have alert the Germans that their code was broken. Instead, he had to work carefully and methodically; he and his team had to compute mathematically how to achieve the greatest strategic gains with the least risk of detection and the least loss of life. It was a deadly game—cold and calculating. But it was also a game that could not be avoided, and it was a game that I believe you would excel at, but only if you had the convictions to follow it through…

“Hermione, if I may,” he said softly. She was surprised to hear him use her given name for the first time. “You have been blessed with an extraordinary talent the likes of which even I have never seen before. Your work on Gamp’s Law was something I did not expect to see in my lifetime. I wish I could shield you from the horrors of this war, if only until you and your friends come of age…but I fear that my ability to do so is slipping. I cannot foretell what will happen, but it may well be that someday soon, _you_ will be the Alan Turing of _this_ war. Can you make the same choice he made?”

Hermione stared, wide-eyed, as she felt the true weight of what he was asking of her fall on her shoulders. _Could_ she make that choice? Could she play people like chess pieces with the nebulous promise that fewer of them would be hurt or killed in the long run? She _knew_ she couldn’t do it like Dumbledore did, standing aloof over everyone and acting without thought to their feelings. She wouldn’t have the nerve for that, and she was a little surprised he did. But could she play the game? Perhaps. It would mean withdrawing from Harry, keeping all her secrets from him, and not looking him in the eye, like Dumbledore did, but if she thought about it, she’d have to do that anyway. At least this way, maybe she could fix it. From that perspective, it was no choice at all.

“Alright, Professor,” she said in a small voice. “I’ll do it.”

Dumbledore smiled: “Thank you. I do believe you’ll be a great help to Harry. Now, alas, it is growing late. It is already past curfew. I will write you a note to return to your dorm, though according to Sirius and Remus, you have your own ways of going about the school without being caught by our illustrious High Inquisitor. I cannot professionally condone such actions, but it would be best if you avoid Professor Umbridge tonight and when you come here in the future.” She nodded. “Now, considering your schedule, I think you should return after lunch on Saturday to begin your training. The _correct_ password is ‘Pepper Imps’.” He scrawled some lines with a quill. “Because Occlumency can only be passed directly from teacher to student, there are few books written on it. These will be the best references available to you in the library, and you are free to supplement them any way you wish from muggle literature. We will determine which techniques are most useful in our lessons.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said. “I’ll do my best.”

“You’re quite welcome, Hermione. Good night.”

Hermione walked back to the dorm in a daze. She barely had the presence of mind to avoid the night patrols. She couldn’t have imagined an hour ago that her night would end up like this.

“Hermione?” George said when she climbed inside, and suddenly, half of the now-much-emptier Common Room swarmed around her, all of them with red hair.

“Where’s Harry?” she asked.

“Went to bed and wouldn’t come back down,” Ron said. “He looked really broken up.”

“You want to explain what that was about?” Ginny said testily. “You yelled at Harry, accused him of accidentally giving away the D.A., and then ran off!”

Hermione sighed wearily: “I’m sorry, Ginny. I got hysterical. And I don’t know for sure about the D.A. thing. I was just guessing on that. Maybe it really was about the Quidditch team. I didn’t mean to hurt Harry at all. I just found out that some important and potentially dangerous information had been kept from me, and I…”

“Went nuts?” George suggested.

“I’ll say,” Fred agreed. “I think she may have graduated to full Weasley with that rant…Good luck, Georgie.” He clapped his twin on the shoulder.

Hermione normally would have had a witty retort to that, but she wasn’t in the mood. “Well, as much as I just yelled at Professor Dumbledore, you might be right.”

“You yelled at _Dumbledore_?” Ron gasped. “Bloody hell, we’ve created a monster.”

“Oh, cool it, you. Look, I wanted to talk to Harry—”

“What for?” Ginny cut in.

“To _apologise_. And to offer my help. Once I calmed down, Professor Dumbledore gave me some tips on how to help him with Occlumency. But if he won’t come back down, I’ll just talk to him in the morning.”

Ginny reluctantly relented.

* * *

“Harry, I’m really sorry about yesterday,” Hermione said, looking anywhere but her friend’s face. “I stand by what I said, but I wasn’t very nice to you, and I should have been more considerate about how I said it.”

“Oh, so you should’ve faked not being mad at me, then?” Harry replied in annoyance.

“I wasn’t mad at you…Well, I was at first, but I wasn’t after I realised that it was really Professor Dumbledore’s fault for keeping it from both of us. I shouldn’t have flipped out like that.”

“Really? So why won’t you look at me now?” he said.

She sighed: “Because we haven’t solved the problem—”

“What do you mean? Look at me, Hermione.” He laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Harry, stop!” she jerked away and turned her back to him.

“What’s your problem?! Did Dumbledore get to you, too? Is everyone gonna start doing this, now?”

“Harry, please listen.” She turned back towards him, but she still only stared at his chest. “This is why I was so mad at Professor Dumbledore. He never told you _why_ he won’t look you in the eye anymore.”

“I figured he was mad about something—like how I’ve got him in so much trouble this year.”

“He doesn’t care about that—I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. Legilimency requires eye contact, remember? If Voldemort can get inside your head, it stands to reason he could try to read Professor Dumbledore’s mind through your eyes. _That_ _’s_ why he’s been avoiding you.”

Harry didn’t respond. The silence stretch long enough that she wasn’t so sure he was sulking anymore. She glanced up, and at the edge of her vision, she saw his mouth hanging open. “I…I didn’t know,” he said.

“Exactly. It’s not your fault, Harry,” she said. “Professor Dumbledore has secrets that he needs to make sure Voldemort can’t find out. And frankly, I do, too. I have more spells I haven’t taught you, and I don’t want to lose the element of surprise.”

“Did Dumbledore tell you that?” he demanded.

Hermione started to say yes, but she stopped herself. Was this one of the secrets she needed to keep? It seemed like a stretch, but after last night, she was still feeling paranoid. _I can_ _’t tell Harry anything that Voldemort would think Dumbledore learnt from Snape,_ she thought. _What a mess._ “He…was pretty vague on a lot of things,” she said truthfully. “But it’s not that hard to figure out. He told me enough about Occlumency to guess it.”

She heard Harry grumbling. “So what, you’re going to ignore me all the time, like he does?”

“No, I’m going to help you.”

“…What?”

“I’m going to help you with Occlumency.”

“Huh? How? Join Snape’s lessons?”

That gave her some pause. Dumbledore hadn’t mentioned it, and it surely wouldn’t be pleasant, but she couldn’t write it off yet. It would give her plausible deniability for her skills. “Maybe,” she said. “Any way I can, really. It can’t really be taught except from teacher to student, but I can at least help you practice. Professor Dumbledore gave me a few references in the library, and I had some ideas about muggle meditation, too.”

“Will that help?”

“I have no idea,” she lied, and she tried to ignore the turning in her stomach when she did. “But it can’t make things any worse, can it?”

“I don’t know. Snape is _supposed_ to be helping me, too.”

“Harry, it’ll work. I’m sure of it—” She shut her mouth at once, realising even that might be saying a bit too much.

“Really? How?”

“I…I meant…”

“Hermione, can’t you just tell me whatever it is?”

“No. I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you everything. I need you to trust me on this.”

Hermione still didn’t meet his eyes, but she could feel Harry glaring at her. “Yeah, I trusted Dumbledore already. It didn’t go so well,” he said.

Hermione’s voice choked. Merlin, it hurt to hear him talk to her like that. “Harry, please,” she managed. “I’m not doing any of this to hurt you. I hope that after all we’ve been through, you’ll trust that I have your best interests at heart. I know trust is in short supply with you these days, but I _can_ _’t_ be honest with you, and I _can_ _’t_ be forthright with you as long as there’s a chance Voldemort can find out what you know. I know you’re hurting already, but as long as your mind isn’t safe, I’m going to have to play Dumbledore’s game—keep secrets from you, even manipulate you, at least a little bit. I know you hate both of those things like I hate dementors and Memory Charms, but I at least have the consideration to tell you _what_ I’m doing and _why_ , unlike Dumbledore…So I hope that will count for something.”

Harry was silent for a long time, and as Hermione kept an eye on the lower half of his face, she thought she saw his expression soften. “It would’ve been nice if Dumbledore told me all this himself,” he said.

“I know. That’s why I yelled at him last night.”

“I still hate the games he’s playing…but I get why you don’t want Voldemort learning your spells…I’m sorry I yelled at you, Hermione. I know you’re still a good friend, and if you think you have a way to help me, I’ll do it.”

“Oh, _thank you_ , Harry,” she said with relief and hugged him.

“Yeah, but if I _do_ manage to learn Occlumency, you’re giving me the whole story or…or I’ll interrogate you with your own Veritaserum.”

She smirked even though she knew he was completely serious: “Deal.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Om mani padme JK Rowling.
> 
> Weird, but true: I naturally sit in a half lotus position and have since I was little.

With the help of the Mathemagician’s Map, Hermione made her way to Professor Dumbledore’s office whilst avoiding Umbridge’s watchful eyes. She gave the correct password, “Pepper Imps,” and was let inside. _It_ _’s about time_ , she thought.

If she was impatient, she had a right to be. She had tried to carry on as normal after her confrontation with Harry, until she realised that she should probably hold off on any further spell development or research into magical weapons until she learnt Occlumency for herself. That made her antsy enough as it was. Even worse, she decided she should probably back off and take more of a secondary role in the D.A., too, to say nothing of stopping teaching anyone else her spells. Even if she was careful to keep Harry from reading _her_ mind, he could still read any spells she taught from someone else’s mind, so she couldn’t help her other friends, either.

And worst of all was that she couldn’t look Harry in the eye. Even though he knew why, it was a strain on both of them. Mind reading made everything ten times more complicated, didn’t it?

She acquired a book on meditation quickly through Dobby and her parents. She hoped her request hadn’t worried her mum and dad too much; she was a bit vague about it. In any case, she had time to start practising some basic meditative techniques before meeting Professor Dumbledore. The book did seem a touch New Agey to her scientific mind, but she trusted her parents’ judgement, and it _was_ written by a licensed psychologist, so it was probably the best she could get.

“Ah, Hermione. Thank you for coming,” the Headmaster said cheerfully. She blinked a little at his continuing to use her first name, but she soon dismissed it.

“No problem, Professor,” she answered.

“And thank you again for being willing to study Occlumency like this. I am confident it will be a great help.”

She nodded, waiting for him to get on with it.

“Well, just so we’re on the same page, you should know that Occlumency is the art of guarding one’s mind against intrusion and outside influence. It is useful against all forms of mind-altering magic, but it is most useful against Legilimency, which, as you know, is the reason I asked Harry to learn it.”

Hermione nodded again. That was pretty close to what she’d learnt already. “And what _is_ Legilimency, exactly, sir?”

“Legilimency is conventionally defined as the art of extracting feelings and memories from another person’s mind.”

She didn’t miss Dumbledore’s use of “conventionally defined.” Was he her leading somewhere? “Professor Snape says Legilimency is not the same as mind-reading,” she probed, “but it sounds pretty similar. How is it different?”

“I suspect Professor Snape is making two distinctions,” he said. “The first is to distinguish Legilimency from the literal definition of reading. Memories are not arranged like books in a library—not even yours, Hermione,” he added with a smile. “Instead, memories are a vast and constantly moving web linked together by associations—some obvious, and some very subtle. Legilimency ‘reads’ conscious thoughts, in a sense, and brings memories to the front of one’s mind using these associations.”

That…actually made sense. Dumbledore’s lessons already sounded more informative than Harry described Snape’s. She could begin to see why he had been a teacher for so long.

“The second distinction is between ‘reading’ and interpreting. Muggle philosophers speak of qualia—the subjective experience of a phenomenon in one’s mind. They ask themselves whether my perception of red the same as your perception of red, for example. A Legilimens can safely answer that question in the negative—my perception of red is _not_ the same as your perception of the same colour—a conclusion that perhaps ought to be obvious, considering that the perception of colour depends so much on lighting, composition, and fatigue of the eyes. It is similar, but it is not the same. Thus, everything a Legilimens ‘reads’ upon entering your mind is seen through what is to them the distorted lens of your own qualia, and it can take great care to interpret these findings correctly—not so much for sensory perceptions, but very much so for memories. Memories are never stored in the mind in an objective form. They are written in a sort of shorthand distorted by one’s own beliefs and biases. The magic of a Pensieve reverses these distortions, but Legilimency does not, and the Legilimens must make an educated guess as to the original form.”

That cleared things up nicely. It also answered a question that Hermione had considered fleetingly the other day: if Snape happened to see a memory of Harry’s relatives mistreating him when he was younger, Snape could easily believe it was an exaggeration and not give any thought to his continued insistence that Harry was “pampered.” That would explain a few things. “Okay, I see the distinction, Professor,” she said, “although I would say the colloquial muggle usage of ‘mind-reading’ encompasses all of that and more.”

“Perhaps so, but it is important to know the mechanics of the magic in order to fight it, as you will no doubt appreciate as an arithmancer. Now, I believe your chief concern is protecting your memories from spying, so we will begin there. Harry’s problems, of course, are a bit more complex. The most basic form of Occlumency is to keep one’s mind blank under the influence of Legilimency. It is basic because while it may not _sound_ the easiest to perform, it is the most difficult for a Legilimens to manipulate against you. It is still challenging to master. Occlumency requires more than a strong force of will. If it did not, Harry would not have the trouble he does with it. It instead requires a mental discipline of a subtly different sort.”

“Meditation?”

“Roughly. Muggle meditation is similar to the basic Occlumency technique. I have no doubt that a determined Buddhist monk could foil the best Legilimens with but a little warning. In your case, Hermione, I think it would be best to see where you are to start with. I will cast Legilimency upon you, and you may defend yourself in any way that occurs to you, with your wand or otherwise.”

 _So Snape_ wasn’t _being a complete arse with Harry. That really_ is _the first lesson. Oh, bugger—_ “Wait, Professor!” she stopped him. “If you were to see something…some kind of rule-breaking in my mind—something that could get not just me, but a lot of other people in trouble…?” She let the question hang, not quite comfortable finishing her thought.

The corner of Dumbledore’s mouth quirked up a little. “This rule-breaking would not have anything to with secretly counteracting Professor Umbridge’s poor teaching methods, would it?” he asked. Hermione gaped in horror, but Dumbledore’s smile widened: “Sirius thought it prudent to inform me in case there were risks he did not know about—not in any detail, of course.”

“Oh…well, um…that was my main concern, Professor,” she said with relief.

“Then I think, under the circumstances, any reasonable effort to ensure quality Defence instruction at Hogwarts can be overlooked…And in any case, it is considered a grave breach of professional ethics to violate the confidentiality of anything learnt from Occlumency lessons.”

“Oh, that’s good. I—” Hermione said with relief, but on seeing Dumbledore’s penetrating stare, her brain caught up with her mouth. That reply had been for her benefit, too. In other words, while he wouldn’t reveal anything he learnt from her, she should not reveal anything she learnt from him, either. “I understand, sir,” she choked out.

“Very good. I have, of course, removed and stored my more strategically-sensitive memories in my Pensieve. If you are ready?” He raised his unusually long, knobby wand at her and cast, _“Legilimens.”_

Hermione tried to clear her mind like the meditation book had said, but she was unprepared for how the spell affected her. She felt dizzy for a moment. The office swam around her, and then, she was assaulted by a blinding array of images—her memories.

She was six, and her Year One teacher was quizzing her on arithmetic. She was ten, and the Headmaster at her secondary school was baffled when she asked about precalculus tutoring. She was proving her skills to Septima the first time they met. She was decoding Septima’s obstacle guarding the Philosopher’s Stone. She was brewing Veritaserum in Myrtle’s bathroom— _No! That wasn_ _’t part of the deal!_

There was a thud, and the office came back into view. She had kicked Dumbledore’s desk hard and nearly knocked her chair over backwards, but she’d apparently distracted Dumbledore enough to break the connection, though she now felt the first twinges of a headache. It was hard to estimate whether it was gentler than the treatment Harry got from Snape.

“I confess that I directed my attention to your more extraordinary exploits just now,” Dumbledore said. “Forgive an old man’s curiosity. May I ask what you were brewing?”

Hermione stared at him silently. She remembered his assertion that whatever he found in her mind would be confidential. It would have to be, or no one would be able to trust their Occlumency instructor. And even if he wanted to punish her, there was only so much he could do without raising suspicion. It was oddly freeing to think she could tell him whatever she wanted, but took a lot of trust, too. Of course, he could probably force what he wanted out of her, anyway, so she answered, “It was Veritaserum, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows shot up at once. It seemed she’d managed to surprise him at last. “I take it Professor Snape doesn’t know?”

“Not a chance, sir,” she said with a smile.

She worried that he might press her on how she’d acquired the ingredients for Veritaserum, but he moved on: “Well, as you can see, it takes considerable effort to block a Legilimency probe. You need to clear your mind of thoughts and emotions. For beginners, it is useful to focus on something physical. Focusing on other things can work, but is less effective. If you focus on something in your physical surroundings, or just on your breathing, you do not need to think in the usual sense, which makes it harder for the Legilimens to manipulate your thoughts. If we could try again?”

Hermione collected herself and nodded. Focusing on one’s breathing was the first step in the meditation book.

_“Legilimens.”_

The dizzy feeling hit again. She looked at the room spinning and the images flashing in front of her— _No! Just breathe!_ The storm subsided for a moment, but came back before she could blink. She was looking a basilisk in the eye thanks to a spell she’d invented on the spot. She was watching in horror when Harry’s name came out of the Goblet of Fire. She forced the thoughts back, but it was hard with the dizzy feeling of the spell. She couldn’t keep her mind clear for more than a second or two. She was fighting with all she had to hold back a swarm of dementors as one of them—

“NOOO!”

She was panting, and she felt sweat on her forehead. She realised she was looking at the carpet. She’d thrown herself from her chair completely in an effort to get away.

“My apologies for bringing up painful memories, but that was a definite improvement,” Dumbledore said. “Nonetheless, a hostile Legilimens could focus on painful memories such as that to torment you. Such memories are linked to strong emotions, making it easy to leap from one to another.”

“That’ll be a big part of Harry’s problem, I think,” she said, more to herself than him. “He’s not good at controlling his emotions. Especially this year.”

“No, I fear not, which is why we are going to such pains to teach him. How did you feel about your effort that time?”

“It was…it was better, sir. I still had a little control. I couldn’t keep my mind clear, though. It’s…it’s not a natural state for me.”

“No, I think not. Would you like to know a secret, Hermione?” he said with an odd smirk. “It is not a natural state for most people. You are not alone in this; of that, you may be sure. Now, continuing this exercise as you are now will likely improve your skills in time, but you may wish to try other techniques—perhaps some of the muggle meditation techniques you have read about. Take a moment to think about it.”

She considered her options. The book had listed a number of techniques, not just focusing on one’s breathing. Repeating a mantra was a popular one. If it was good enough for two thousand years’ worth of Buddhist monks, there had to be _something_ to it. “I’m ready, sir,” she said.

 _“Legilimens,”_ Dumbledore cast.

 _Om mani padma hum._ The book had given it as an example not because of any religious alignment (she didn’t even know what it meant), but because it was short and easy to remember. _Om mani—_ Dragon! Basilisk! Blast-Ended Skrewt! _Om mani padme—_ Her parents forcing her to leave Hogwarts. The letter from the Ministry forcing her to go back. _Om ma—_ She was experimenting with magical lasers. She was burning her eyebrows off with thermite. _I_ _’m only slowing him down. How do I throw him out? “Protego!”_ she said out loud, almost without thinking about it.

The spell didn’t have the intended effect. The images continued, but now, there was a sense of foreignness about them. They seemed distorted, and she felt a tingle of control. She saw a student with tousled brown hair and a niffler on his shoulder being reprimanded by his teachers, a sickly, waifish-looking little girl with Dumbledore’s piercing blue eyes feeding goats, a black-haired man with glasses and a red-haired woman with seemingly glowing green eyes swearing their allegiance to the Order of the Phoenix, an impossibly-handsome blond boy with a manic grin brandishing a wand—

She was snapped out of the vision so hard it gave her whiplash. “Excuse me, Hermione,” Dumbledore said, “you quite took me by surprise.”

“You…you _did_ say any way that occurred to me, sir,” she said nervously.

“I did, indeed. And a Shield Charm _is_ effective, though rarely useful.”

 _And it reflected the spell back at him,_ she thought. _The Shield Charm doesn_ _’t normally do that. Weird._ “Er, if you don’t mind my asking, Professor, who was the little girl?”

“My sister, Ariana,” he said simply. “Tragically, she died young.”

Hermione suddenly felt very awkward. Even though he answered the question freely, it felt like an invasion of his privacy. She almost let it go, but she couldn’t help asking about the image that seemed most distorted: “And…who was the blond boy?”

“Ah, you may not believe it…but it was Gellert Grindelwald.”

“Grindelwald? You knew him that early? How—I…I always pictured him as a Nazi SS commander or something.”

Dumbledore face was neutral, and he didn’t react except to say, “He favoured plain black duelling robes when we met in the Second World War. But we could spend all day strolling down memory lane. You were thinking just now about how to throw off a Legilimency probe rather than merely blocking it. Unfortunately, there is no way to stop the spell on your end aside from breaking eye contract. However, with a sufficiently strong resistance, it is possible to block out the probe entirely and focus on one’s surroundings once again.”

Hermione nodded. It figured it was something like that.

“Now, I will try the spell again, and I would like you to try the same technique as before—without the shield charm. It appeared to offer some further improvement.”

“I guess so. Alright, I’m ready, sir.”

 _“Legilimens_.”

 _Om mani padme hum. Om man—_ She was assembling Dumbledore’s Army. _No! Om mani padme hum._ She tried to recite it calmly, not frantically in an attempt to shut out the probe, which would only make it worse. _Om mani pad—_ She was dancing with George at the Yule Ball. _No! Stop it! Om mani—_ She was having an intimate conversation with George. She shut it out before she could tell which one it was. _Not working! Om—_ She was crying in the bathroom because she couldn’t cope with life and couldn’t hold down any decent friendships. _Come on, come on!_ She was about to die at the hands of a mountain troll. Her concentration snapped. _Need something else!_ She was screaming at Harry— _No, no, no_ _…oneonetwothreefiveeightthirteentwentyone—_ The probe tried to push to another memory, but she was too focused on the numbers to register which one, which stopped it in its tracks— _Thirty-four fifty-five eighty-nine one-forty-four two-thirty-three three-seventy-seven_ —The office grew clearer, even as the probe pushed again, harder, but adding numbers in her head was something she had conditioned herself to do for years, and Hermione Granger did _not_ lose count. _Six-ten, nine-eighty-seven, fifteen-ninety-seven, twenty-five eighty-four—_

The probe broke off. Professor Dumbledore was grinning at her. “The Fibonacci Sequence. Very impressive, Hermione,” he said. “I would not have thought of that one on my own. Reciting mundane information, certainly, but listing potions ingredients or even names of Quidditch players would have mental associations that could be exploited to reach more sensitive memories. Low-level arithmancy like that would have far fewer.”

“Th-thank you, sir,” Hermione said, rubbing her head. “I guess my mantras are a little different from other people’s.”

“I suppose I should not be surprised. I should warn you that mental fatigue may be a greater problem with such a technique, but you have made a good start. I hope you will be able to teach Harry as effectively. But for now, as it is clearly putting a strain on you, I think it is time we stopped for the day.”

“Right. Of course. And…thank you, Professor.”

“It is I who should be thanking you, Hermione. You did not have to do this.”

 _Yeah, maybe in theory,_ she thought. There was no way she was going to let Harry go through this alone _and_ pass up a chance at this kind of knowledge. Speaking of which…“Professor, Harry suggested I join him in Professor Snape’s lessons. Do you think that would help?”

“Hmm…I do not think that would be advisable. For one because it might raise questions you can’t answer, and for another because, confidentially, Professor Snape is already unhappy enough teaching Harry, and I would rather not place additional pressure on him. However, I will keep it under consideration as an option.”

“Right. I guess same time next week, sir?”

“Correct. Oh, and by the way, Hermione?”

“Yes, Professor?”

“Dumbledore’s Army. I am most flattered.”

“Thank you, sir, but it was Ginny’s idea.”

“Either way, I appreciate the loyalty. Good afternoon.”

She left Dumbledore’s office thinking about how she could tell Harry what he needed to know without giving too much away. That would be just as hard as the actual lesson. But she was sure she could work something out.

* * *

They met in the Room of Requirement that evening, before the regular D.A. meeting. Hermione could tell Umbridge was getting suspicious. She’d been snooping around that part of the building the past couple of weeks, according to the Mathemagician’s Map. They’d have to be extra careful about people coming and going without being noticed. Maybe change up their meeting times more often. If the Human Toad was on to them, predictability was their enemy.

“So, Harry, the good news—or maybe bad news depending how you look at it—is that Professor Snape’s lessons are actually basically correct—at least as far as I can gather from the books Professor Dumbledore suggested to me.”

“You’re kidding!” he groaned.

“I haven’t seen an Occlumency lesson performed, mind you,” she lied, “by Professor Snape or otherwise, so I can’t exactly speak with authority, but what you’ve described sounds basically like how it’s supposed to go, except that Snape is…rougher about it.”

“Rougher? He doesn’t even explain anything!”

“I’d believe that. I couldn’t say for sure without knowing his exact words, but…” That much was true, at least. “He told you to clear your mind, right?”

“Yeah, but how am I supposed to do that?” he grumbled.

“That’s what I want to help you with. According to the books, beginner-level Occlumency sounds a lot like muggle meditation. I had my parents send me a book on the subject through Dobby, and I bet it explains it in a lot more detail than Snape does.”

Hermione couldn’t see Harry’s face, but she could imagine him with a thoughtful expression right now. It seemed to fit best to his current silence.

“So how does it work?” he said.

“Okay, first, get in a comfortable position.”

“Why?”

“Because the book says so.”

“But why?”

“It’s supposed to help focus the mind or something.”

“But Snape never lets me—”

“We’ll worry about that later, Harry,” she snapped. “It’s easier if you take it one step at a time. Just get in a comfortable position, like this.” She sat cross-legged on the floor. Harry followed her, although she could imagine he still felt sceptical. “Good. Now, I’d say close your eyes, but Legilimency is done with eyes open, so just skip that and…and stare straight ahead, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“That’s not really important. Just sit still, and don’t try to look at anything in particular. Take deep breaths—slow and even. I know Professor Snape isn’t very calming, but it really is important to stay calm—er, that’s what the books say, anyway. Focus on your breathing. Don’t try to control it or anything. Just direct all your attention there. Any time your thoughts start to wander, just bring it back to your breathing.”

“Are you serious, Hermione?” he said.

She tried to imitate Luna’s serene voice and replied, “This is how mediation works, Harry.” She then uncomfortably pulled one of her legs into a half lotus position and made “okay” signs with her hands. Harry laughed and was noticeably calmer after that. She could only hope it would help him against Snape’s deliberately bad “teaching.”

* * *

Speaking of bad teachers…

“Yes, I had Rebecca Gamp do the transfigurations and examine the residual energies, Professor. She was better at the practical aspects than I am. But I devised and constructed new tests to rule out whole classes of transfiguration processes for radioactive isotopes. I figured out how to apply quantum symmetry groups to the problem. I assembled the whole proof arithmantically based on her findings.”

Hermione wasn’t even sure how Umbridge had got back on the subject of her arithmantic exploits this time, but she really wasn’t letting up today. Somewhat to Hermione’s surprise, she went from insinuation straight to direct accusation, and that _really_ riled her.

“You stole the findings of a pureblood witch far more accomplished than yourself, and of stronger heritage, and cloaked them in some muggle mumbo jumbo so you could pass them off as yours,” Umbridge shouted. The rest of the class was silent, watching the exchange with trepidation.

“I did _not_ steal anything!” Hermione replied. “It was a collaborative project that we agreed to pool our efforts on. If Rebecca didn’t agree afterwards, she would’ve said so. It was all well-documented, and the journals accepted it as such.”

“Yes, the _journals_ ,” Umbridge said dryly. “It might interest you to know, Miss Granger, that I have written letters to _Transfiguration Today_ and _Annals of Arithmancy_ informing them of my concerns about your alleged research and recommending against awarding you the Gamp and Wenlock Prizes.”

“WHAT?! You can’t do that!”

The class gasped while Umbridge smiled wider. Bloody hell, she wasn’t just sabotaging the class or even her reputation. She was trying to sabotage her career directly, too.

“It’s clear to _me_ from your body of work that you are not deserving of such prestigious awards, even before your ethical problems are taken into account.”

“But that’s libel!” she protested.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor for accusing a professor!”

“A malicious and spurious accusation of ethical violations designed to harm an innocent person’s reputation constitutes libel, _Professor_.”

“I have done nothing of the kind, Miss Granger!” Umbridge said imperiously. “You have stolen research and built up a false reputation yourself—”

“That’s a lie!” Hermione stood up. “Just like this theatre that you’re not here just for your political agenda—”

She stopped. Umbridge’s smile broke into a ghastly grin, and Hermione knew she’d gone too far.

“I think a week’s detention would do you a lot of good, Miss Granger.”

* * *

Her detention, like Harry’s at the beginning of term, was at five o’clock, before supper, and Hermione had a bad feeling it would resemble Harry’s detentions in other ways as well. Damn her temper! Ever since Ron pointed it out, she felt like she was seeing it more often, and it had _really_ got her in trouble this time. There went her dinner, her last chance to coach Harry some more before his Occlumency lesson, and quite possibly all of her homework time for the night. And she had assignments due tomorrow. (She couldn’t work ahead _all_ the time.)

It had occurred to her in the intervening hours that this might have been Umbridge’s plan from the start: to goad her into doing something detention worthy. Did she really care about the Gamp and Wenlock Prizes? She’d been clueless about Hermione’s work at the start of this. From that perspective, Hermione wasn’t sure whether to be ashamed for falling for it or a little bit proud that it took her two weeks when it took Harry about five minutes.

Of course, that wouldn’t help her out of this mess. She preemptively stocked up on murtlap essence and thought up a few legal loopholes to try to get out of it, but she remembered what Septima had told her. Umbridge was much better at political games than she was. Harry and Ron begged her to do something—to hex her in the face, modify her memory— _anything_ to get out of probably having to cut up her hand, and she didn’t completely rule them out, but she had to be careful and try quieter methods first.

She arrived at the horridly pink office at five o’clock. Umbrigde got right to it and said, “Good evening, Miss Granger. Sit down here,” whilst pointing to a straight-backed chair and a table draped with a lacy tablecloth. _Doesn_ _’t she care about getting blood on the lace?_ Hermione wondered. Maybe she was especially good at cleaning charms. Hermione sat.

“You have a temper, Miss Granger. And glory-seeking tendencies no doubt influenced by your friend, Mr. Potter. We’d better reign that in before it gets out of hand, oughtn’t we?” Hermione said nothing. “You will be doing some lines for me with my _special_ quill. Here you go.”

Umbridge laid a black quill on the parchment that was already set out. Hermione picked it up and gave it a quick examination. It was elegantly-made and no doubt especially durable. It was long and thin, with a knife-sharp point that had a groove running down it like a snake’s fang. She had no doubt it could cut her skin if directly applied.

She played dumb and said, “You haven’t given me any ink, Professor.”

“Oh you won’t need ink with this quill,” Umbridge said, clearly holding back a laugh. “I want you to write, _“I must not tell lies_.’”

Hermione bristled at the reminder of what this woman had done to Harry as well as the accusation, but she reigned in her temper. She needed to be smart about this. “How many times, ma’am?” she asked.

“Oh, as long as it takes for the message to _sink in_.”

She knew she would say that, of course. She took a deep breath to steel herself and took the first piece of parchment. At the top of the page Hermione wrote, _I must not tell lies._

She let out a soft hiss of pain. She’d been prepared for it but it still hit her hard. She didn’t know from experience what it felt like to be cut up with a knife, but this pain was definitely on the level of being scratched by Crookshanks. The quill wrote in bright blood-red on the paper, and the words appeared in deep cuts on the back of her right hand. She clutched at the quill, but the cuts healed themselves in seconds, leaving smooth skin once again. The sting went away with them. Hermione had never thought of dark magic being healing, but she thought that very well might be was this was.

“Professor…” she said and faltered for a moment.

“Is there a problem, Miss Granger?” Umbridge said.

“Professor, is this thing legal?”

Umbridge’s smile fell. “Why ever do you ask?”

“Well, a muggle school would never use something like this, ma’am.”

That infuriating faux-politeness returned: “Now, Miss Granger, I think you know better than that. We do things differently in the wizarding world. You will find if you enquire that there is no law against the use of this quill.”

“Really?” That was something of a surprise—assuming Umbridge wasn’t lying. She quickly ran through reasons that might be true in her mind. Was the wizarding world that big into corporal punishment? Well, for house elves, it was, but that was an unusual case. They certainly never used it at Hogwarts, but in the old pureblood families? Maybe. Or maybe it was something about the quill itself. It seemed nasty, but it wouldn’t nearly as nasty if it were used sparingly. It had taken eighteen hours of use for the words to stop healing on Harry’s hand. If it were used in a normal detention, no one would ever get close to getting a scar from it.

Come to think of it, she’d never heard of a quill like this before this year. She bent down and examined it closer. There were tiny runes carved into the shaft, like on a wand. She didn’t recognise all of them, but she recognised enough to know that they fuelled the quill’s magic, both to cut the words into one’s hand and to heal it. It was actually very well-made.

“Miss Granger, you’re not writing,” Umbridge reminded her.

“Excuse me, ma’am. It’s just that I’ve never actually heard of this kind of quill before. This rune work is very good.”

Whatever response she was expecting, Umbridge threw her for a loop this time: “Why thank you, Miss Granger, but flattery will not mitigate your punishment.”

 _Wait, what?_ Hermione thought. _Oh my God, did she_ invent _the thing?! Damn, I didn_ _’t think she was that smart._ That explained why there was no law against the quill. No one ever bothered to write one, if they even knew it existed.

Umbridge was tapping her foot waiting for her to continue. Hermione almost did, but before she pressed the quill to the parchment, she tried one more trick. Trying to sound more scared than she was, she said, “You won’t tell my parents about this, will you, Professor?”

“Wh-what?” It sounded like she’d thrown Umbridge for a loop with that one.

“I…I understand it’s not the same, ma’am, but in muggle schools, parents are informed of major disciplinary actions against their children—actions like this.” This was a bit of a stretch, since that mostly applied to day schools rather than boarding schools, but Umbridge didn’t need to know that. “I…I don’t want them to know…”

Reverse psychology. A plausible lie to make her think she was scared of her parents’ reaction, and she hoped Umbridge would want to hurt her more by telling them. Then, _they_ could take legal action from the outside with her letter as hard evidence. They knew enough about the magical world that they could probably do it.

Alas, it was not to be. “Your parents are muggles, Miss Granger. Correct?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said. _You know that! You remind me every class!_

“Then there is no need to worry about that. Given the limited contact that muggles have with the magical world, the Ministry recognises the need to have a more knowledgeable advocate for muggle-born children who can react more quickly, and it has been decreed that for muggle-born students, Hogwarts itself serves as a legal guardian while you are at school—something that has been the case long before this year. So you see, there is no need to inform your parents.”

 _Damn, she either saw through my ruse or cares more about the law and her anti-muggle bias._ It was what she had expected, but it was still disappointing. Hermione reluctantly leaned back over the parchment and wrote the words again.

_I must not tell lies._

She had to fight back tears. They were from the pain rather than fear or sadness, but she still fought to keep Umbridge from seeing them. The lines cut her hand, just as painful each time, always in between the lines so they wouldn’t slow down her actual writing, and always vanishing in a few seconds—for now. She tried to think of other options, but she didn’t have much to work with. In the space of a few minutes, she was forced to cut herself maybe more than she had by accident in her entire life. She didn’t know how Harry had managed this for two weeks.

After eleven lines, she cracked and desperately pleaded, “Professor, am I obligated to do this?”

Umbridge’s eyes bulged out with deep offence. She drew herself up, which was somehow intimidating despite her short stature. “You most certainly do, Miss Granger,” she said, “if you want to keep your place at Hogwarts. You _must_ know that persistent insubordination is grounds for expulsion—”

 _Might be worth it at this point,_ Hermione thought. _I_ _’m moving to France over Christmas, anyway_.

“—and your parents would be _so_ disappointed in you, especially when they have to explain to the Wizengamot why you’ve become truant.”

“Wh-wh-what?” she stammered.

“Well, once you leave the school, your parents become your legal guardians and therefore responsible for your actions. And you surely remember that Educational Decree Number Twenty-One requires you to be enrolled in an accredited educational program?”

“Y-yes, but expulsion—”

“Does not obviate your obligation,” Umbridge interrupted. “If you are not enrolled in an alternative accredited program, you will be considered truant, and I don’t know how it is in the muggle world, but in the magical world, truancy is an offence on the part of a child’s guardians, not just the child herself. And it’s terribly difficult to find alternative tutoring as a muggle-born, I’m afraid.”

Hermione stared at the woman in horror, her mouth hanging slightly open. They could go after her _parents_ for this? Yes, it was technically the same in the muggle world, but there were allowances. There were time windows. There were educational programs set up specifically for that purpose. But the magical world was tiny, and Umbridge and Fudge controlled far too much at it. They’d bend the rules however they had to to get at her, and they could bend them much further than she’d imagined before. Could they drag muggles before the Wizengamot? Could they send them to _Azkaban?_

Her heart started racing. She felt the colour drain from her face, and she saw Umbridge looking at her like a cat playing with a mouse. Hermione had just lost, and they both new it. She could never, _ever_ let that happen. Not at any cost. Suddenly, a week of Umbridge’s detentions felt like a small price to pay. She would walk through fire to make sure her parents never came in contact with a dementor.

Without another word, she bent her head and pressed the quill to the parchment again. Within a few lines, she couldn’t stop the tears from spilling down her face. She had known intellectually that Umbridge would probably win this fight, but she thought she’d be able to keep up an honourable resistance. Now, she’d lost it all. She hadn’t been this humiliated since the troll incident in first year—maybe even since the bullies in primary tried to break her down when she was eight.

She glanced up and caught a glimpse of Umbridge’s expression while she was crying and immediately looked back down in horror. It was a _leer._

 _Oh my God, I think she might be an_ actual _sexual sadist_ , Hermione thought. She wished more than ever that she could get away, but she was well and truly trapped.

She went slow at first, not rushing and practising her best penmanship so she wouldn’t have to write as many lines, but then she remembered that Umbridge had shortened Harry’s detentions after the message started to “sink in,” and she forced herself to go back to a normal, though not rushed, writing pace.

In an hour, she’d written one hundred and seventy-four lines. (Hermione Granger did _not_ lose count.) It was already longer than most lines typically ran, but she knew she was just getting started. She had no doubt that with her friendship with Harry and her persistent needling of the woman this year, Umbridge would be just as harsh with her as she’d been with him.

In two hours, she was up to three hundred and sixty-three lines. Darkness had was falling outside the window, and dinner would be ending. Her hand was aching even between the etchings of the words. She’d long since given up crying, but she didn’t slow. She knew she was in for the long haul.

She hit a thousand lines midway through the sixth hour. She was hungry, thirsty, sleepy, and in need of a bathroom break by now, but she was too afraid to ask for a favour. Even if her detention ran as long as Harry’s she could stick it out. She’d never even heard of an actual assigned number of lines greater than this, but Umbridge didn’t seem to notice. The woman had finished marking marking essays a while ago and was reading a book at her desk. On closer inspection, Hermione could make out an under-dressed couple on the cover, and she had a sinking feeling that it was a steamy romance novel. Now, she wanted to vomit, too.

Her hand still healed after each line was carved, but when she counted it off, it was taking longer to do so. A thought occurred to her around line one thousand thirty-five: how did Umbridge know that the quill would stop healing after so many hours of use. If she invented it, it had to be largely untested. She stole more glances at the tiny runes in the seconds while her hand healed, but she didn’t see any indication that it was _designed_ to work that way. Maybe it was just like the _Reparo_ charm, where it never quite worked as well with repeated application. Maybe Umbridge was better at arithmancy that she’d thought and was able to work out how many repetitions it would take to leave a mark. Or maybe she _had_ tested it somehow…Hermione shuddered. She didn’t want to think about that.

At one thousand, four hundred and eighty-eight, she heard a call of _“Hem hem_.” She looked up.

“Come here,” Umbridge said.

Hermione stood and approached her desk. She glanced at her watch. It was one o’clock in the morning. She was exhausted, and she still wasn’t caught up on her homework. Worse, she’d have to work ahead overnight because she _knew_ she’d have to do this again tomorrow night.

“Tut tut,” Umbridge said, examining her hand. It made Hermione’s skin crawl just to touch her. “I see the message hasn’t made much of an impression yet. We’ll just have to try again tomorrow night, then. You may go.”

“Th-thank you, Professor,” she choked out and left.

She collapsed against the nearest pillar and sobbed the moment she was out of the corridor where Umbridge’s office was. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen so far. She wanted nothing more than to sink down to the floor and go to sleep. Cutting words into her hands for—she could hardly believe it—eight hours straight was far more tiring than just staying up late. But she couldn’t stop moving. She couldn’t risk getting caught after curfew and getting another detention—from Umbridge or anyone else. She couldn’t afford missing an assignment and risk being punished for that. She had to carry on with these detentions on top of everything else and keep her head down besides.

She avoided Filch and the castle’s various other hazards with her Map and made it back to the Common Room. Harry and the Weasleys had waited up for her, as she had done for Harry. It would have been touching if she hadn’t been horrified for her friends to see her like this.

“Hermione!” Ginny jumped up and hugged her. “Are you okay? You look…”

“Like hell, I know,” she finished for her without hugging back. “I’ll be fine.”

“Was it lines?” Harry asked.

She nodded.

“Ouch,” George said. She could see the anger in his eyes. “I can’t believe that bitch. We need to—”

“No,” she cut him off.

“But we need to—”

“No,” she repeated.

“Hermione, what’s the matter?” he said, now more worried than angry.

“Just…just don’t do anything to Umbridge. Please.”

All of them stared in horror at her. “Hermione, what’d she do to you?”

“It was just lines, George, I swear. The same as Harry. But I mean it. I don’t want you doing anything to Umbridge. Not in my name, and not in your own. You have no idea what she’s capable of.”

That made even Harry worry. “Hermione, what happened in there?” he asked.

“Just leave me alone, please.”

“But if she’s doing something worse—”

“ _I said_ —” she snapped, but she choked. Could she get in trouble even here, with her friends, if she made a scene? After tonight, she was too scared to take any chances. “Please. Leave me alone,” she whispered. “I’ll be fine when the week is over, I promise, but right now, I have work to do.” And before they could ask again, she rushed up the stairs to her dorm. She couldn’t tell them. She just couldn’t. It would only cause her more trouble. But she knew they were all still asking each other just what had happened in Umbridge’s office.

“Dobby?”

 _Pop!_ “Miss Hermione, what is wrong?” the elf squeaked.

“Don’t ask,” she groaned. She didn’t need him interrogating her, either. She’d called him because she remembered the two all-nighters she’d pulled before Harry had to fight a dragon in the Triwizard Tournament. “Dobby, it’s going to be a late night for me. I think I’m going to need Pepperup—” _No, stupid, the apothecary will be closed by now. And there_ _’s no chance of the Hospital Wing. The kitchens? No, Umbridge might be monitoring them. Time to go muggle on this._ “No, scratch that.” She fished some sickles out of her robes. “Go to the Three Broomsticks and buy me a double coffee with cream and sugar to go. Don’t tell anyone who sent you. If they ask, tell them it’s a request from the school. Oh, and wake me at eight o’clock if I fall asleep.”

“Yes, miss.” Dobby’s ears were drooping. Even he looked worried about her, but he carried out his orders.

The pain in Hermione’s hand had subsided to a dull ache, and there were no visible marks, but she figured it couldn’t hurt to treat it, so she dipped a handkerchief in the bowl of murtlap essence and tied it around her hand so she could still write. She drank her coffee quickly when Dobby brought it and got to work.

A half hour later, she realised she’d made a mistake—a problem she wouldn’t have had with the Pepperup Potion: caffeine jitters. She thought the Pepperup was bad enough, but caffeine jitters were worse. She’d never tried caffeine this late at night before, and it wasn’t pretty. She couldn’t concentrate enough to work productively until past three o’clock. She managed to get her work done, but she didn’t get any sleep at all that night.

And now, she had to do it all over again.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is our queen!
> 
> A lot of you said you hated my version of Umbridge even more than the canon version. To that, I say, good! Umbridge couldn’t be such a great villain if she weren’t so powerful, and the worse she is, the more satisfying it will be when Hermione finally takes her down. So making her so loathsome was precisely my intent.

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey told her. “Professor Umbridge has ordered that Pepperup Potion may not be given out for ‘frivolous’ reasons. It’s available only for students showing cold symptoms.”

Hermione didn’t bother protesting. She just sent Dobby to the Hogsmeade apothecary to buy one. Unfortunately, it would be suspicious to buy more than one at a time, but it would get her through the day, and the pain would surely get her through the evening. She didn’t know what she’d do if Umbridge decided to stick it to her for an extra night, though. She could probably brew a Pepperup Potion herself if she wanted, and she felt like she could use a Calming Draught, too. But she didn’t have enough time as it was.

The second night of detention was just as bad as the first, with the added bonus of being dead tired and her hand hurting worse than before. It took ten seconds to heal each line by the end of the night, and it left a faint, red, irritated mark behind. Umbridge just tut-tutted at this after another eight gruelling hours and told her to come back the next night.

Two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-nine. She’d carved those libellous words into her hand two thousand, eight hundred and fifty-nine times. She was pretty sure that was banned by the Geneva Conventions, let alone civil law, but Dolores Jane Umbridge was untouchable. Hermione blew off her friends more harshly than she did the previous night. She was too tired to think of anything but her homework. She slumped into her chair by her desk in the dorm. No matter how much she wanted to sleep, she had to press on and get her work done for the next day so as not to risk further punishment. She sent Dobby to the Three Broomsticks for more coffee, but this time, remembering her mistake last night, she was more careful. She took a couple of sips every half hour, applying a Warming Charm to the cup each time. It worked. She stayed awake through most of the night with no jitters. Granted, she was so tired she couldn’t work as fast as she usually did, but she still got the job done.

* * *

Hermione felt like a zombie on Wednesday, even with another Pepperup Potion smuggled in from the apothecary. She walked through the halls in a daze, not noticing when danger was approaching.

_SLAM!_

“You bitch! I can’t believe you!”

She wasn’t surprised she ran into somebody on her way to lunch. It was only a matter of time. But she _was_ surprised when she realised that the shove was deliberate. She staggered as she was knocked hard against a wall and looked up in surprise to see an irate Rebecca Gamp standing over her. She glanced around for Harry and Ron, but they must have got separated. “Rebecca?” she said.

“The greatest discovery in transfiguration of the past half-century, and _you_ had to go and ruin it for me!” she yelled, pushing her back against the wall when she tried to steady herself.

“Rebecca, what are you talking about?” Hermione said nervously.

“You know what I’m talking about— _this_!” She shoved a newspaper in Hermione’s face.

 

_GAMP_ _’S LAW BREAKTHROUGH: PRIZEWORTHY OR ETHICAL FAILURE?_

 

“What on earth—?”

“They say you stole my research to make yourself look better.”

“Rebecca, I swear I didn’t—”

“ _And_ they’re saying the discovery wasn’t that big a deal anyway.”

“They what—?”

“They’re pushing to have the Gamp and Wenlock Prizes withheld from us— _all three of us_!”

“What?! They are?” Hermione said in confusion. “I had no idea. Umbridge said she wrote a letter denouncing _me_. She never said _anything_ about you or Septima.”

“So you admit it was you?” Rebecca’s wand appeared in her hand. Hermione wasn’t sure when that had happened. The girl’s eyes flashed with fire. She instinctively reached for her own wand, but she hesitated. She couldn’t risk being caught fighting. It would be dangerous enough if she was caught with someone shooting hexes _at_ her. Umbridge would certainly try to twist it.

Unfortunately, the decision might be out of her hands. At that moment, she heard a cry of, “Oi! What’re you doing?!” and saw that Ron and Harry had rounded the corner. She knew how this must look: herself cowering in uncharacteristic fear from an older and more experienced girl who had her wand drawn at her… “Ron, no! Don’t!” she tried to stop him, but she wasn’t fast enough. Ron drew his wand without thinking and fired off a hex at Rebecca, but it splashed harmlessly against a Shield Charm.

“Back off, Weasley,” Rebecca said. “You’re little friend here is trying to ruin my career.”

“I’m not—!”

“Put your wand down!”

“Ron, please stop!”

“You put yours down. This doesn’t concern you.”

“Not if you’re gonna hurt Hermione!”

“Please, I don’t want anyone to fight!”

“Hermione, why aren’t you doing something?” Ron said.

“I’m trying to discuss it calmly,” Hermione said.

“She was about to hex you—”

“I’ll hex you, too, if you don’t shut up,” Rebecca spat.

Harry seemed to have disappeared. He’d had his wand out, too, at first, but he’d held back. Perhaps he’d noticed that Hermione didn’t have hers out, but she didn’t know where he’d gone.

“Leave Hermione alone!” Ron yelled.

“Ron! I mean it. Stop. Rebecca, I’m not trying to ruin anyone’s career. Umbridge has it in for me, and she’ll use any way she can to hurt me.”

“Well, you better do whatever you have to to get right in Umbridge’s book—”

“Like hell she will—”

 _“Silencio!”_ Rebecca cast at Ron.

And that was too much for Ron. Before Hermione could speak again, he started firing off hexes. He looked like he was shouting, but the spells were weakened by him being unable to make a sound, and Rebecca defended herself easily. Hermione just tried to back away from the fight, but a stray Boil Hex struck her in the face, and she cried out in pain and sank to the floor.

“MISS GAMP! MISTER WEASLEY!”

Everyone stopped and looked to the source of the sound. There, standing at the entrance to the corridor, was Septima. And beside her, panting, was Harry. Hermione sighed with relief and mouthed, _Thank you_ at him.

 _Any time_ , he mouthed back. She doubted he had a clue what was going on, but at he could do something sensible.

“What is the meaning of this?” Septima demanded of Rebecca.

“Er…” Rebecca looked down at her feet like a child with her had caught in the biscuit tin. “Hermione and I were discussing the article about our research in the _Daily Prophet_ today.”

“Mm hmm. It must have been some “discussion,” then. Mr. Weasley?” she asked.

“She attacked Hermione, and I—” said an unsilenced Ron.

“I did not! You attacked me—”

“You were threatening her—”

 _“Ahem!”_ Septima cleared her throat properly, nothing like Umbridge’s false titters. “I see. Hermione, what happened?”

Hermione staggered to her feet again. “Rebecca was angry because of the article,” she said. “I was trying to discuss it calmly with her, but then Ron came and started a bigger argument that…” She looked between them. “…led to hexes being exchanged.”

Septima gave a hard look to the three of them and judged that Hermione was probably telling the truth. “I’m very disappointed in you two,” she said. “Especially you, Miss Gamp. I saw enough of what you were casting. I expect better from my mastery students. Your independent study is suspended for two weeks.” Rebecca gasped indignantly, but didn’t say anything. “Both you and Mr. Weasley will serve detention with me this evening, and fifty points apiece will be taken.” This time, Ron gasped indignantly, but before he could say anything, Septima turned to Harry. “Mr. Potter, twenty points to Gryffindor for an appropriate response to the situation.” By which they all knew she meant making sure Umbridge didn’t get involved as well as going for help. “Hermione, five points to Gryffindor for trying to resolve the situation in a nonviolent way. Now, I think I should take you to the Hospital Wing.”

“Why didn’t you fight back?” Ron muttered as they walked. “You never take that from Malfoy.”

“I can’t talk about it,” she muttered back. She could tell both Ron and Harry looked afraid for her. She knew it was out of character for her, but what else could she do? She’d been walking on eggshells all the time, and she hated it. “Please trust me,” she added hopefully. They seemed to accept it, but she knew it would only buy her time. She would need to tell them sooner or later.

Madam Pomfrey reversed the curse soon enough, put a salve on her face to ease the pain, and called for a meal so she wouldn’t miss lunch, but she was unhappy with Hermione’s overall state at the moment. She was clearly sleep-deprived, and her stress levels were high even for a fifth-year. The Mediwitch recommended some rest and a good nights’ sleep, which she politely acknowledged without committing to anything. Thankfully, she didn’t try to keep her there longer.

Septima skipped her lunch hour to sit with Hermione and told the boys to go on to lunch so they could speak alone. “I don’t condone violence, Hermione, but I must say I was surprised at you, too,” her favourite teacher said. “Why didn’t you defend yourself? You wouldn’t have got in trouble if Rebecca was the clear aggressor.”

“I wouldn’t have if _you_ _’d_ found me,” Hermione said softly. “If it had been Umbridge, it would have been different, and I can’t…I can’t take any chances.”

Septima frowned at her: “Hermione, I know something’s wrong with you. Even the boys could tell. I know you might not be comfortable telling them, but I hope you can at least tell me or Madam Pomfrey or Professor McGonagall.”

It was true, she thought. She _was_ more comfortable with Septima about some things. “It’s…it’s Umbridge,” she muttered, and then, after a moment’s thought, she added, “Detentions.”

“Detentions?” she gasped. Her eyes flicked to Hermione’s hand. “You? How? What happened?”

“That wasn’t the worst, though.”

“What?”

“Umbridge…she…”

“Hermione, please, what is it?”

“She threatened my parents!”

“What?”

And then, it all came pouring out: her futile attempts at outmanoeuvring Umbridge, her small victory for Harry, the persistent goading and needling about her research, seemingly for revenge, the letters denouncing her, the detentions, and the legal threats against her family. Septima looked on in horror at sight her favourite student shaking with fear and constantly looking over her shoulder. She never thought she’d see the day when even Dolores Umbridge would break Hermione Granger’s spirit.

“Expel you and then arrest your parents for…for _your_ truancy?” she said. “I’m so sorry, Hermione. I had no idea they would—well, of course they would, but I had no idea they _could_ …”

“I know. I nearly panicked when she told me, but she was right. It’s called ‘contributing to the delinquency of a minor’ in the muggle world, and a corrupt system like Fudge’s regime could easily pull it off. There’s nothing I can do. And I have to go back all this week.”

Septima shook her head. “I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now. I wish I could help more, but—”

“But Umbridge doesn’t like you much, either. I know.”

“Hermione, you can’t let her beat you like this. There must be _something_ you can do to get out from under that woman’s thumb without endangering yourself or your parents.” Dammit, she was a Slytherin, Septima thought—and smarter than Dolores. Plots were supposed to be her thing.

“There is,” Hermione said. “Remember? My whole family is planning to move to France over Christmas holidays. I’ll be overseas for the duration. I just have to hope she doesn’t find an excuse to get rid of me before then. She hasn’t got rid of Harry yet, so I’m probably safe for now, but—”

“I know, it’s not a certainty.” Suddenly, she got an idea. “But I think there might be something you could do sooner than that.”

“Like what?”

“You need to be enrolled with an accredited education program, right? I know they refuse to count Beauxbatons, but you could at least still look for a private tutor starting now.”

Hermione gave her a confused look. “But everyone says getting a private tutor is almost impossible for a muggle-born.”

“Key word: _almost_ impossible. And that’s for an average muggle-born, not for Hermione Granger. Despite what Umbridge says, everyone in the field knows how brilliant you are. And even if that’s not enough on its own, you’ll have an even better chance if I write a letter of recommendation for you. My name may not carry far here, but it does out there.”

Her eyes widened. “You’d do that. I—thank you. How would I do it?”

“I’ll put together a list of accredited tutors who I think would be interested in you. You’ll need to write to them and request enrolment with them effective immediately. Your parents will probably need to sign something at some point.”

But Hermione shook her head: “That’s no good. Umbridge is reading my post.”

“What?” Septima was shocked, but then again… “I know that what the rumour says,” she ventured.

“I started that rumour, Septima. I _know_ it’s true.”

“What? Wha—how?”

“I have a way of getting messages through to my parents without fear of interception. When I compared them with letters sent by owl, the owl post had been tampered with.”

So the rumour _was_ true. Well, that was questionably legal at best, but like everything else Dolores did, they were powerless to stop it. “These secret messages you’re sending,” she asked. “Is there any chance you could use it to write to the tutors?”

“No, just my family.” _And Headquarters,_ Hermione thought. “It’s no good for anything else, unless—” Suddenly, she got that glint in her eyes that heralded a brilliant idea. “Septima, how do people normally send letters if they don’t have an owl?”

“There’s an Owl Post Office in Hogsmeade and another one in Diagon Alley.”

“Do they rent out post office boxes?”

“Of course.”

Hermione’s tear-stricken face brightened into a knowing grin: “Septima, get me that list.”

* * *

The rest of the day passed in a blur for Hermione. Though she was in better spirits, they quickly vanished when her detention began. Even with the pain of the constant cutting into her hand, it was hard not to fall asleep across the bloodstained parchment. She wasn’t crying or making much of any noise anymore, which seemed to frustrate Umbridge a little, but it just went on and on. She remembered Harry’s third detention ending quickly, but this one kept going hour after hour, and her hand kept stubbornly healing, if barely. She realised only too late that applying the murtlap essence early had soothed it and improved the healing of the cuts. All she’d done was stretch her torture out further.

It wasn’t until mid-way through the fifth hour (three thousand, five hundred and seven) that her hand finally stopped healing and left thin, red lines oozing blood in her skin. She wondered what to do. Should she speak up or not? She resisted the urge to just wipe the blood all over the lacy tablecloth.

Umbridge soon noticed she’d stopped scribbling and inspected her hand. “Yes, it looks like you’re starting to get the message,” she said. “That’s enough for tonight. I’ll want to see you tomorrow evening again, of course. You may go.”

“Thank you, Professor,” Hermione ground out.

The Common Room was quiet, but not deserted when she got back this time, and a few other people looked her way when she climbed in the portrait hole. Naturally, her friends jumped up to greet her with concerned faces.

“Hermione! You’re back!” George rushed to her. “Harry was saying it shouldn’t take as long by the third night. Are you okay? Did she—?”

She held up a hand to stop him. “George, whatever you have to say, it can wait till morning. I’m about to fall asleep on my feet.”

“Oh. Well, then…good night. Sleep well, Hermione.” He looked crestfallen, but he kissed her on the cheek and let her go.

She wrapped her hand in the murtlap-soaked handkerchief again when she got to her room. It wasn’t likely to prolong her detention much at this point, and she needed the pain relief now. After asking Parvati to wake her at eight o’clock and thanking God that she’d managed to push a day ahead on her homework, she passed out fully-clothed on her bed.

Parvati woke her not at eight o’clock, but just two hours later to remind her that they had to go to Astronomy Class. Hermione swore so loudly that her roommates backed away in fear, but she still went because she wasn’t about to get cited for missing class. She trudged up to the Astronomy tower, where Professor Sinistra took one look at her and asked her if she was alright. Harry and Ron immediately jumped in to explain about the detentions before she could protest, but that turned out to be a good thing because Professor Sinistra wrote her a note to go back to bed at once. Hermione honestly could have kissed her.

* * *

She didn’t have the luxury of sleeping for sixteen hours like the last time she’d pulled back-to-back all-nighters, but after an interrupted ten hours, she felt reasonably rested, albeit not back at one hundred percent. George, however was most chipper. He gave her a searing kiss that she really wasn’t awake enough for the first chance he got and once again asked her about her detentions. She answered vaguely and said that she had flipped out before because she was tired and in pain and dismayed that Umbridge had outmanoeuvred her so thoroughly, not wanting to be too specific about her plan just yet.

“Do you want us to—?” he started to say.

“No!”

“Come on, Hermione you have to let us do something,” he protested. “It’s my duty as a boyfriend and _our_ duty as the school pranksters.”

“Please, not this time, George. Umbridge is too good. You can’t defy her to her face. It’ll only cause trouble for you.”

“But…but…what if we stole her quill?”

“And burned it?” Fred added.

“That would stop her, wouldn’t it?”

Hermione shook her head: “No good. She invented it. She could always make another one, and it’ll just make her angrier.”

George frowned heavily. He knew she was right, no matter no much he disliked it. “Then what do we do?” he asked. “I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

“Me neither,” said Fred.

“The D.A. _That_ _’s_ how we fight her—what we do in the shadows. Anything we can do to foil her agenda here is a victory…” She smiled, then. “And besides, you don’t want to risk getting in trouble two days before the first Quidditch game, do you?”

That made George smile back. “True, that,” he said. “Oh, and I almost forgot. Here.” He handed her a bracelet. “Updated Daydream Charm. You look like you could use it. Just tell us how it goes, okay?

Hermione was grateful, but she stowed it for that evening, after her detention. In the meantime, Septima apparently worked fast, as she passed Hermione a list of names over lunch hour. Thank God she had _someone_ on her side with actual power. Hermione didn’t have time to do much with it, but she did have a little bit of time after Herbology to start putting her plan into action.

“Dobby?”

 _Pop!_ She was a little surprised when the first words out of Dobby’s mouth were, “Miss Hermione, I thinks you shoulds not drink so much coffee. You will be sick if you is not sleeping more.”

“Er…that’s fine, Dobby,” she said. “I think I’m done with that for now. I called you for something else.”

“Oh.” Dobby looked uncomfortable at his own impertinence. “How can Dobby be helping, then?”

She handed him a couple of galleons and a few sickles. “I want you to go to the Owl Post Office in Hogsmeade and rent out a post office box for me in the name of…” She stopped and considered the possibilities, then smiled. “In the name of Archimedes. If there are any forms I need to fill out bring them to me—unless I’m in detention by then. In that case, wait till I get back to my dorm.”

“Is you needing another way to send post, miss?”

“Yes, I’m going to need to send secure messages to people other than my parents and the Order. I need to write them first, so I’ll just rent out the box for now.”

“Yes, Miss Hermione.”

The post office box did require some forms—and three galleons per year—but they were short and simple and, best of all, they weren’t picky about the pseudonym as long as she paid up. Soon, she was the proud owner of the address:

 

_P.O. Box 314_

_Hogsmeade, Scotland_

 

And she still had to go to detention.

The cuts on her hand opened up and started bleeding again without healing within half an hour, but Umbridge told her to keep going. There was no way to stop the blood from dripping down on the tablecloth, even if there wasn’t much of it, but the woman didn’t seem to care. Still, she let Hermione go after two hours, leaving her the evening to do as she pleased. She started by snogging George as hard as she could in front of the entire Common Room was she got back because he informed her that he and Fred had saved her food from dinner.

She told her and Septima’s plan to her friends that night in strict confidence without going into too much detail why she was doing it. Their reactions ranged from dismay that she might be leaving them even sooner (they hadn’t really thought much about the fact that she was planning to spend spring term in France) to interest in what private tutoring would be like compared with Hogwarts. Harry said he’d put in a good word for her, except it would probably be counterproductive at the moment.

“It could be good, doing that,” Ron said. “I mean, I don’t think I’d wanna do school on my own, but you could go to Hogsmeade whenever you wanted.”

“No Quidditch, though,” Fred pointed out. “Who’d want to live like that?”

“Well, it’ll only be a few weeks at most,” she replied with a roll of her eyes. And if all goes well, not at all.”

“Say, couldn’t you do it for the whole spring term?” George said.

Hermione turned and stared at him.

“I mean, then you’d still be in the country, and you could visit on Hogsmeade days.”

She jumped to her feet. She nearly bolted to her room, but she stopped long enough to kiss him on the cheek and say, “That’s why you’re the smart twin.”

“OI!” she heard Fred yell behind her as she dashed up the stairs. She soon reached her dorm and scribbled a note:

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_About selling the practice and moving to France? Hold off on making anything final unless absolutely necessary. We may need to change our plans quickly. Long story. I_ _’ll tell you when I know more._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

 

That was a good start, so she had Dobby deliver it right away while she got started on the letters to the list of tutors Septima had given her. If she wrote a form letter and copied it down for each one, she could probably finish it tonight. It was a short list. Her hand ached from the cuts and cramped from all the writing she’d been doing, but at least she wasn’t writing down those same five words over and over again for once.

She took her time to craft a letter that sounded respectful, knowledgeable, and very interested without sounding desperate. Septima had been helpful enough to jot down a few notes to help her out, which was good because there were certain small etiquettes to be observed that were probably a mix of pureblood traditions and a legacy of the old-time apprenticeship system.

She did have one extra bit she added, though: a polite enquiry into how the accreditation had changed under Educational Decree Twenty-One and whether there were any new steps in the process that would involve her. It was a question that might have seemed a bit uninformed, but not one that a complete novice would ask. Hopefully, she would glean from the replies how easy or difficult it would be for the Ministry to revoke her tutor’s accreditation just to spite her. Although, she wondered, if it got her out of Hogwarts where she couldn’t “corrupt” any students, would Umbridge even care?

In any case, once she had a letter that she thought looked good, she started writing out the copies she needed. It was then that Dobby delivered her parents’ reply to her note. She frowned as she read it. She should have realised that it might distress them.

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_We will hold off on the sales if you want; there is still time in the process, but you need to tell us if something is wrong. Are you in danger at school? Is something happening here at home? We don_ _’t understand why our plans to move out of the country would suddenly become a problem, and we do hope you’re still alright at Hogwarts._

_Love,_

_Mum and Dad_

 

They’d be wanting a reply tonight. She knew that even before Dobby said as much. She grabbed another piece of parchment and started to write:

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

Part of her wanted to write a long letter detailing…well, not _everything_ that had gone on, but quite a bit of it. But somehow, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. The detentions had been pressing down on her so heavily all week that she didn’t even want to think about them. And what would her parents say when she told them? She’d glossed over Harry’s detentions earlier as much as she thought she could get away with. No, she’d hold off and explain things in detail later.

_Problems with Umbridge. No actual danger, but I may need to reevaluate my plans for the spring term. I_ _’d write more, but I’ve been insanely busy this week. I’ll get back to you when I have answers._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

 

Hopefully, that would tide them over. Her final detention went about as smoothly as was possible, and when it was over, she felt much lighter. She was finally free! She decided to celebrate by trying out the Twins’ new Daydream Charm. It was very pleasant, but she was uncomfortable with how risque her subconscious made it. That seemed like something they ought to adjust, but George and Fred would probably say it wasn’t a bug, but a feature.

* * *

On Saturday, Hermione was finally able to pay attention to the rest of the castle again. She had barely remembered the Quidditch match—the always-eventfully Gryffindor-Slytherin match that usually kicked off the season—but apparently, it was a big deal. Slytherin had made numerous attempts to hex Gryffindor’s players in the corridors, to which Snape had turned a blind eye. They’d been particularly taunting Ron because he was the newest player and wasn’t used to it. Harry, in contrast, barely seemed to notice the trash talk anymore, and when he did, he gave as good as he got. This morning, half the school was decked out in red and green, and Luna was wearing a hat that looked like a life-sized lion’s head, which roared on command. Luna _was_ the artistic type, she recalled.

Hermione, however, elected to have a short visit with Septima before the match. They’d skipped their independent study lesson today, but she needed to thank her for helping her through the week and see what was going on with the other matters at hand.

“Rebecca’s still furious,” Septima said. “I’ve warned her to stay away from you, and I _think_ I’ve got her to accept that it’s not your fault, but she’s still angry, and she’s not dealing with it very well, though I admit I can’t blame her that much. This ought to be the crowning achievement of a researcher’s career, but…well, you see what Ministry pressure can do. I’m not happy with it, myself, but I’m sure this is directed at me almost as much as it is you, so I know where to place the blame.”

“I still don’t understand why Umbridge went after Rebecca after all, unless it was to get to me,” Hermione said. “What do you think will happen?”

“If the Ministry keeps putting the pressure on the journals, I’m afraid they’ll fold. Not that they believe the lies—at least I hope they don’t—but because Fudge could make their position in magical Britain untenable if he really set his mind to it. It might be hard for you to appreciate, living in the muggle world, but the Ministy controls _everything_ in this country—not directly, but they’re friends with the people who do.”

“Like how all of the corrupt politicians and businessmen are golfing buddies with one another?” she suggested.

“Golfing? Is that a muggle game?”

“Er, yes. Anyway, I get the picture. What do you think we should do?”

“I don’t know. If we’re lucky, this will just blow over. Umbridge has already got you for showing her up with the Quidditch thing. If she doesn’t let up, there’s not much we can do, though. It’s not fair to Rebecca—as cross as I am with her—but politics stomps on everything sooner or later.”

Hermione said nothing and let the thought stew for a while.

“Does your hand hurt?” Septima asked gently, noticing the red marks.

“A little. I’ve been treating it with murtlap essence all week, so the pain’s not too bad, but I don’t think it’ll fully heal.”

She should her head. “I never thought she would be capable of _that_ when we were in school. Though perhaps I should have seen it. And how many times writing it that must have taken—”

“Four thousand, one hundred and ninety-three,” Hermione said, and Septima blanched. “Sorry,” she added.

The grand total had been four thousand, one hundred and ninety-three lines when she finished on Friday night. She was sure she would have a scar that read _I must not tell lies_ on her hand for the rest of her life, just like Harry. Who would have thought she’d get a war scar without ever fighting in the war? If she _did_ stay in Britain, the Ministry would be making some changes sooner or later. She would see to that. But at least if she played her cards right, no one would ever be able to force that torture on _her_ again. _Harry_ was still at risk.

“Anyway, how’s Georgina doing?” she asked, hoping for a lighter topic.

“She’s doing fine in her classes,” Septima said. “She’s brilliant at Arithmancy…I worry about her, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “About Umbridge or…?”

“About everything. I’m not that worried about Umbridge, really. Georgina’s only in second year, and she’s a Slytherin. I’ve told her to keep her head down, and Umbridge will probably go easier on her even though she’s my grand-niece. But the other things…well, we both know that You-Know-Who is out there. It’s going to become very dangerous for everybody very soon, whether they’re involved or not. And also…well, she’s a Slytherin. I remember what it was like in the last war. You-Know-Who did an awful lot of his recruiting in Slytherin House, right under our noses. We tried to quash it, of course, but there was only so much we could do. Anyone who spoke against _him_ in Slytherin learnt pretty quickly not to do it again. Those who tried to stay out of it were usually okay—unless they were especially talented, which, frankly, Georgina is.”

Hermione nodded. “I could tell.”

“It’ll start with small things—weak brainwashing now by the older students, building up to a lot of pressure to join up if the war goes into her fifth year, Merlin forbid.”

Three years from now. Hermione shuddered. She didn’t want to think about it going that long.

“So, basically, I’m worried about her getting in over her head with no one to protect her—or needing to defend herself in general and…”

“And look who she’s getting Defence instruction from,” Hermione finished.

Septima nodded. They sat in silence and sipped their tea while a wild idea entered Hermione’s mind. It sounded crazy at first. For one, Georgina was only a second-year. But she was a bright second year, and Dennis Creevey was only a second-year, too. For another, would a Slytherin ever be accepted? But if she was trying to push for inter-house unity, who better than a Slytherin Hermione could vouch for personally, who also happened to be the grand-niece of a professor who was known for being much fairer than Snape? Most importantly, though, would Georgina—or Septima, for that matter—be willing to go along with it?

Well, it couldn’t hurt to try, could it? She trusted Septima well enough.

“Septima,” she said, “if there was, hypothetically, a way for Georgina to get proper Defence instruction…um, what would you think about that?”

Septima’s eyes narrowed at her suspiciously. “I would think that, _hypothetically_ , that would probably be an expellable offence under the current school rules. I’m pretty sure our esteemed High Inquisitor would not approve a study group of that nature.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t. But I was thinking—hypothetically—of something slightly _more_ expellable, but _also_ protected with a magical contract of secrecy and other reliable protections against being found out by the teachers—Filch and Umbridge in particular.”

Septima’s eyebrows shot up, and Hermione smiled. “In that situation,” Septima said cautiously, “I would definitely want to know _exactly_ what the consequence of breaking the contract was.”

Hermione made a quick decision. She’d been vague to everyone else, but a Slytherin (and a responsible grand-aunt) would want to know the exact consequence. “Nothing _too_ harmful, I’m sure,” she said. “Just a bad case of acne that writes ‘SNEAK’ across one’s face.”

That seemed to surprise Septima again. “Maybe you _should_ have taken the Sorting Hat’s offer of Slytherin,” she said, to which Hermione rolled her eyes. “In that case, if Georgina was willing to go along with it, which I suspect she might be, and if I trusted the person who wrote the contract and laid down the protections, I think I would be okay with her taking such a risk, although I would be interested what protections you believe a bright fifth-year student could lay down that would foil a determined Ministry official.”

Hermione just smiled and said, “You haven’t taught me _everything_ I know, Septima.”

She smiled back. “I see. Good answer…for a Slytherin.”

“If you think I’d spend one night in the same dungeon as Draco Malfoy, you’ve got another think coming. But thank you. To be honest, I thought you’d turn me down flat.”

“Don’t think it’s an easy decision, Hermione, but it’s one that every parent, or in my case grand-aunt, has to make in times like this. I care more about Georgina learning to defend herself properly than the risk of an expulsion that, if there’s any justice in the world, will be reversed before her O.W.L. year. That said, if her parents ever get wind of this, I’ll deny everything and tell them I argued strenuously against it.”

Hermione giggled uncomfortably, but she had her answer. She’d probably approach Harry later and run it by him before going through with it, but she had a good feeling about it.

“Honestly, I should be thanking you, Hermione,” Septima continued. “ _Someone_ has to stand up against the ‘hypothetical’ evil and corruption in this world, especially in dark times like this.” She sighed heavily. “I feel like I’m getting too old for this.”

“You’re not that old, Septima.”

“Maybe not, but after seeing one war through and signs of another starting, it feels like it. And my fiftieth birthday is coming up in the spring term.”

“When _is_ your birthday? I don’t think I’ve ever asked.”

“The eighth of February.”

“So…exactly nine months after V-E day?”

Septima chuckled: “Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“Not really. Though I would have guessed ten years younger if you hadn’t told me Umbridge was your roommate in school.”

They both laughed at that.

“So, any other family?” Hermione asked. She honestly didn’t know much about Septima’s family besides Georgina.

“No, no, just Georgina’s and her parents and my brother…I never married or anything…When I was young—when I first started teaching here—I thought about marrying and starting a family. Then the war came, and I sort of lost track of that dream. By the time it ended, I was happy here, and I just wasn’t interested anymore. And in ‘83, Georgina was born, and I thought that was enough for me…for a while,” she added, seemingly to herself.

“For a while? What changed?” Hermione asked, hoping she wasn’t overstepping.

“I met you,” she said. Silence fell for a moment, and she added, “I remember seeing you, eleven years old, filled with boundless enthusiasm, and the brightest child I’d ever met. You were almost like the daughter I’d always hoped I could have—Sorry, I shouldn’t be dumping my personal baggage on you.”

“I don’t mind, really. We’re friends, aren’t we?”

“Yes, I suppose we are, strange as it is. Even now, I wonder if I could…Fifty isn’t too late to start for a witch, but it’s getting close. But now another war’s coming, and…well, I just don’t know…”

Hermione wasn’t sure how to respond to that. She rarely thought about the fact that so few of the teachers at Hogwarts were married, much less why. How many of them were committed bachelors or bachelorettes like Dumbledore seemed to be, and how many were products of interrupted lives and dream like Septima? She felt like she ought to say something, despite being so much younger. “I really don’t know what’s right for you Septima,” she tried, “but…but I do know one thing, and that’s that I was only able to get together with George by getting over my uncertainty about the future and not allowing it to control my life.”

Septima showed a wan smile: “I think that’s a little easier for a Gryffindor.”

“Ugh! Do we _really_ have to keep defining people by their houses?” she snapped.

“Okay, okay, but you’re still a braver person than I am.”

“I don’t feel that brave right now.”

“You certainly sounded like it a few minutes ago. Don’t let one defeat, even a deep one like this—” She motioned to her hand. “—get to you. “If you can face that and still face up to Umbridge in some other way, even if it’s behind her back, that’s very brave of you—hypothetically, of course.”

Hermione got up and hugged her: “Thank you so much, Septima.” Then, she checked the clock. “Oh, no! We’re going to be late for the match!”

“Oops! Better hurry. I don’t want to have to answer to Snape for missing Slytherin win.”

“Ha ha.”

They both rushed down to the Quidditch pitch and made it just as the match was starting. It seemed like bog-standard Quidditch at first…until the Slytherins started singing. That was strange. Hermione couldn’t make out the words at first while she hurried to her seat, but she soon caught the chorus:

 

_Weasley is our king,_

_Weasley is our king,_

_He always lets the Quaffle in,_

_Weasley is our king._

 

“Oh, no!” Hermione groaned. It was bad enough that the Slytherins were taunting Ron all week, but now, they were preying on his self-confidence during the match. Was that kind of catcalling even allowed? They hardly let up the whole game, singing about how he was born in a bin and was a terrible flier. It threw him off his game—which Harry and Ginny insisted was pretty good when he was on it—and he really did let the Quaffle in every time. The game was only saved when Harry caught the Snitch before they got too far behind, but the moment he did, Crabbe hit a Bludger at him that slammed squared into his lower back and knocked him off his broom.

“HARRY!” she yelled. She rushed down to the pitch to see if he was okay. To her relief, he got up before she got to him, but then, Malfoy started taunting the Gryffindors, and before she knew it, Fred and George tried to attack him. Angelina and Harry held them back, but then Malfoy said something else that made both Harry and George attack him.

“GEORGE! NO!” she cried out, but she was two late. Harry and George were both being hauled off to Professor McGonagall’s office before she reached them, and she got a sick feeling in her stomach when she saw Umbridge following after them a few minutes later.

Fred filled her in on all of Malfoy’s insults in graphic detail—such a stream of invective that Hermione had to wonder if it had been preplanned with Umbridge, as even Malfoy wasn’t normally that bad and was more careful about not getting punched in the face. It had started with “fat and ugly” for Mrs. Weasley and “useless loser” for Mr. Weasley, then graduated to the Weasley’s house smelling like a pigsty and finally insinuated that _Harry_ _’s_ mother (being a muggle-born) stank just as badly, which was what set Harry off. She wanted to punch out Malfoy too after that, but she despaired to think what horrid punishments Umbridge had dreamt up for them.

She was about to find out. Harry and George entered the Common Room, looking as pale as ghosts.

“Harry! George! What is it? What did she do to you? More detentions?”

“Worse,” Harry said in a hollow voice.

“Yeah, way worse,” George echoed. “Freddie, get over her. I don’t know how to say this, but…but that Toad gave you the same punishment. Said you would’ve hit Malfoy if Angie hadn’t stopped you.”

“Well, she’s right, there,” he growled. “What’d she do to us?”

“She…she…” George was choking on the words. He looked like he was about to cry.

“She banned us from Quidditch,” Harry spat out.

“WHAT?” half the Common Room gasped.

“Banned us for _life_ ,” he added, “ _and_ confiscated our brooms.”

“WHAT?”

“NO!”

“She can’t do that!”

“She can’t!” Hermione protested. “Please tell me she can’t do that, George.”

“She did it,” he mumbled. “And McGonagall didn’t stop her.”

Hermione collapsed into a seat (as did the boys). “Confiscating your brooms, though?”

“She did it.”

“That can’t be—there _must_ be something wrong with that,” she fumed. There had to be something she could do. This was her best friend, her boyfriend, and her boyfriend’s twin. There had to be something she could do to help them. Umbridge kept hurting the people she cared about, and she felt powerless. That women had pretty much sucked _all_ the fun out of Harry’s life, now. There had to be some small way she could fight back. But she couldn’t approach Umbridge herself. Not after the week she’d had.

But maybe someone else could.

Seized with sudden purpose, she jumped up, walked out of the Common Room, and went straight to Professor McGonagall’s office.

“Excuse me, Professor?” she called.

“Hmm?” McGonagall looked up. She looked like she might have been crying herself, but she hid it quickly. “Oh, Miss Granger. Good afternoon. I’m afraid if you’re here about Mr. Potter’s and Messrs. Weasleys’ punishments, there’s nothing I can do. Professor Umbridge has final authority over all discipline.”

“I know that, ma’am. I just wanted some clarification about it. Does Professor Umbridge actually _have_ the authority to give Harry, George, and Fred a lifetime Quidditch ban? I didn’t even think punishments could carry over to next year, and then there’s after school—”

“I’m afraid, Miss Granger,” McGonagall cut her off, “that as long as Professor Umbridge remains High Inquisitor, and as long after that as that Educational Decree stays in force, she _can_ stop those boys from playing Quidditch at school. You are right that she doesn’t have direct authority over the National Quidditch League, but with her connections at the Ministry, I’m sure she can convince them to issue a ban as well.”

“Ah, I was afraid it would be something like that, ma’am. But does she really have the authority to confiscate their brooms, too? Those are personal property, and they’re not contraband or anything. It’s not like she even banned them from recreational flying, so they could still use them legally.”

McGonagall perked up at the thought, and she started thinking. “You…you may be right about that, Miss Granger. I’m afraid I was so stunned earlier that I didn’t think of it. I’ll speak to Professor Umbridge about it. She might be able to invoke some regulation to keep them locked in her office for now, but I’m _certain_ I can force her to give them back when the boys leave for Christmas holidays.”

“Thank you Professor. I’m glad I could do _something_ for them. Oh, but do me a favour and don’t mention my name to Professor Umbridge, please.”

“Of course not, Miss Granger. And thank you for bringing this to my attention. Ten points to Gryffindor.”

Her conversation with Professor McGonagall took the edge off, but Hermione was still furious with Professor Umbridge for everything she’d done all week. And it didn’t _really_ solve Harry’s problem at all. He was still completely under her heel—and so was Hermione herself, for now. So she did what she hadn’t had the time or energy to do that week. She stormed off to the Room of Requirement and cursed a pink-clad dummy into tiny pieces.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All hail JK Rowling, the Gurg of Harry Potter!
> 
> A big thanks to syed for suggesting Hermione’s tutor and to Endgames for helping me plan out his arc in the story. It helped several other things fall into place, and I think it will be great fun, too.

Hermione was tired out and emotionally sated when she got back to the Common Room only to find a smiling— _smiling!_ —Harry grabbing her and pulling her back out the portrait hole with Ron and Ginny and saying, “It’s about time. Come on, Hermione.”

“Harry?” she said. “What on earth—? Did you get hit with a Cheering Charm?”

“No. Didn’t you see? Hagrid’s back!”

Hermione followed, then, but seeing Hagrid did not raise her spirits. He looked a mess. Half his face was bruised and bloody, and he had a raw dragon steak, of all things, plastered across his face as a compress. He was limping, too. The giants must have really been hard on him—At least, Hermione hoped it was the giants. If Madame Maxime had done this to him, she would have to re-evaluate a few things.

“Giants? Who said anythin’ about giants?” Hagrid said when she asked.

“Professor Dumbledore. At the end of last term,” Hermione reminded him. “He talked about contacting them. It only makes sense that he’d send you. My friends at Beauxbatons say Madame Maxime was gone, too…although…” she remembered, “she got back a few weeks ago.”

“Oh. Well. Yeah, we saw the giants,” he said.

Hagrid must have just got back because he wasn’t aware of anything that had gone on in Britain, from the dementor attack on Harry to Umbridge’s detentions to the Quidditch ban, but they pressed him to talk about the giants first. Hermione hadn’t read much about them, and she was very interested to learn more.

Hagrid and Madame Maxime had left for Russia at the beginning of summer. They’d had to go slowly because they were undercover, but apparently, Madame Maxime wasn’t afraid of roughing it, which surprised Hermione almost as much as it had Hagrid. She couldn’t imagine her opal-wearing former Headmistress pitching a tent muggle-style. They finally found the giant village in a valley in the Ural Mountains. Hagrid claimed it wasn’t that hard since they were about twenty feet tall, despite their small numbers.

“Only eighty of them left?” Hermione said, aghast.

“Only ones in Europe. That’s all I know fer sure. But there can’t be many more on th’other cont’nents, neither.”

That was bad news for the giant race. Eighty definitely wasn’t a viable breeding population. Oh, it _might_ be possible if they had good enough genetic stock. She’d read up on inbred lines for George’s and Fred’s puffskein breeding program, but it would be messy and brutal to get a breeding population working, and she couldn’t see the giants being very cooperative. Maybe if they got cloning working in the next few decades…But she didn’t want to distress Hagrid, so she kept it to herself and bade him continue.

The other surprising thing about giants was that eighty of them were apparently too many to squeeze into one valley, and they fought a lot. That seemed odd. She was pretty sure human hunter-gatherers lives in tribes of one or two hundred, and the giants definitely had a tribal structure, complete with rituals and taboos and the strongest member of the tribe being the Gurg, or chief. Professor Dumbledore had told them how to approach them. (Another odd thing: was neither Hagrid nor Madame Maxime familiar with their own culture?) Approach the camp at dawn, when they were rested, only look at the Gurg as a sign of respect, bring a gift (Dumbledore had sent powerful magical gifts to win them over)…and don’t make things too complicated because they’d kill you to simply them.

In any case, the mission had started well. The first day, the Gurg, Karkus, accepted their gift. The second day, he listened to their offer of peace from Dumbledore with interest, for he’d heard that Dumbledore had spoken on behalf of the giants in the past.

And on the third day, Karkus was dead. Another giant named Golgomath had ripped his head off with his bare hands after an hours-long fight. Golgomath didn’t want to wait around for their gifts. He tried to literally shake Hagrid down for them. At that point, Madame Maxime let loose some Conjunctivitis Curses, and they had to make a run for it. Predictably, Golgomath had been backed by a couple of Death Eaters who had brought _him_ gifts to convince him to take over. Why win over the leader when you can just depose him? Even then, the two of them had tried to convince some of the others to side with Dumbledore, but Golgomath just beat them up until they submitted. On the whole, the mission was a total loss.

Unfortunately, Umbridge showed up to “greet” Hagrid before they could get to the part about him being attacked, since his current injuries looked far more recent. The four of them hid while she interrogated him, even if they weren’t technically breaking the rules. She made it pretty clear that she was suspicious about him working for Dumbledore and contacting the giants, but she must not have had proof because she left him with a warning about his upcoming inquisition—er, “inspection.”

Hermione tried to convince Hagrid to play it safe with his lesson plan before they left for dinner, but she wasn’t sure he took it to heart.

“Please just be careful, Hagrid,” she urged. “You can’t win against Umbridge. I’ve tried. Harry’s tried. Even Professor McGonagall’s tried, and nothing’s worked. She’s literally torturing people in detention, and she’s got a decree from the Minister letting her do it!”

“Torturin’?” he said in disbelief.

“Not with curses or anything, but it was still hours of pain. And I just _know_ she’ll look for any excuse to fire you because you’re close to Dumbledore. Gaming the system like that is her speciality.”

“Blimey, she’s tha’ bad, is she?”

“Yes, she is, and I won’t be here myself past Christmas. My parents put their feet down. So I won’t be able to do much to help you. Just _please_ take it easy on the, er, difficult animals.”

“Well, don’ yeh worry, Hermione,” he said. “I don’ have nothin’ that’s trickier than the hippogriffs for yeh, and that turned out alrigh,” didn’t it?”

Hermione hoped he was right. All in all, the visit left her with more questions than answers. She’d heard giants were considered vicious, intractable, and below-human intelligence, but she hadn’t wanted to believe it. She’d thought it was just prejudice, but from Hagrid’s description, it sounded accurate. And Hagrid seemed much more human than a half-giant ought to based on that. Giants couldn’t use magic, but Hagrid could. Giants were apparently thick and lumpy and had skin “like rhino hide,” but Hagrid just looked like a big human, and Madame Maxime even more so. A quirk of genetics, maybe? And for that matter, how was it even possible for a giant and a wizard to have a child together? She’d have to poke around in the library before she left to see if she could find anything.

“By the way, Harry, I’m sorry I never asked, but how did your Occlumency lessons go this week?” she asked as they walked back the castle. She unfortunately felt she’d been neglecting her friends because of her detentions.

Harry looked uneasy. “I think I was doing a little better…” he said. “That meditation stuff we did stopped Snape from getting in a little bit…It didn’t last long, though. I kept getting distracted because I was mad at Snape. Snape didn’t seem too happy about it, either.”

Hermione could guess why: Voldemort would give Snape a hard time about it later, even though it wasn’t Snape’s fault. She wondered if Snape even knew about her arrangement with Dumbledore, although he would have seen her helping Harry in his mind, and he might be able to guess it. “I know it can be hard to clear your mind, Harry,” she said. “You just need to keep practising. I can help you some more tomorrow night.”

“Thanks, Hermione,” he said half-heartedly.

“No problem. Oh, and there was something else. I had someone I wanted to bring in to the D.A., and I was hoping you three would back me up on it.”

“Sure, why wouldn’t we?” Ginny said.

“Because…” Hermione said slowly, “she’s a Slytherin.”

“What?” Ron gasped. “No way!”

“Ron—”

“No, I mean it. We can’t have a Slytherin in there. What if she told Umbridge?”

“I’d make her sign the contract first, of course. That’s why we have it in the first place. Harry, you’re the co-leader. What do you think?”

To her relief, he didn’t shut her down at once, though he was suspicious. “It’s risky,” he said. “Lots of Death Eater sympathisers in Slytherin. Why do you want to bring a Slytherin, anyway?”

“Because what does it say about house unity if we don’t trust an entire house enough to even ask them?”

“It says we’re worried they’ll switch sides to You-Know-Who,” Ron said.

“I haven’t even told her who she is, yet, Ronald,” Hermione protested. “It’s Georgina Vector. She’s only twelve, so she’s not much of a threat, and Septima is worried about her finding better influences than the other Slytherins so she _doesn_ _’t_ go to Voldemort. And she needs to learn to defend herself. I trust Septima, and she’s certainly not with Umbridge, either. Besides, Georgina would still have to sign the contract like I said.”

“Hm…I guess Georgina would be okay,” Harry admitted. “Is she the only one?”

“The only one for now. There are others, but I’d want to feel them out better first. Ron’s sort of right about being sure what side they’re on.”

“Okay, then. Just tell us about the others in advance,” Harry said.

“Thank you, Harry. Ron? Ginny?”

“Well, if she’s only a second year, I guess she can’t do too much damage,” Ginny said. She looked to Ron.

Ron looked between the three of them. “Oh, alright,” he said, “but if she rats us out, I’m blaming you.”

“Thanks for the support,” Hermione said coolly.

* * *

Hermione had postponed her Occlumency lesson with Dumbledore to Sunday because of the Quidditch match. She had hoped she would have made some improvement from last week. Unfortunately, she found she had the same problem as Harry: her emotions were running too high, and she was useless at clearing her mind right now.

_Lifetime ban from Quidditch_ _…“You wouldn’t want your parents to have to answer to the Wizengamot, would you?”…I think she might be an actual sexual sadist…“You bitch! You’re ruining my career!”…“I recommended against you being awarded the prizes.”…answer to the Wizengamot…Dementors swooping around, trying to get their ravenous maws on her—_

It was too much. In desperation, Hermione focused on the one thing she was able to at the moment.

_I must not tell lies._

_Four thousand, one hundred, and ninety-one._

_I must not tell lies._

_Four thousand, one hundred, and ninety-two._

_I must not tell lies._

_Four thousand, one hundred, and ninety-three._

Dumbledore reeled back in his seat as he broke the connection. Hermione found she was shaking. Her head hurt worse than usual, and her hand was stinging again.

“I’m sorry, Professor, that really wasn’t a good way to do it, was it?” she said shakily.

Dumbledore gazed at her, his face downcast.

“Professor?” she said.

“No, it was not, Hermione,” he said softly. “Or rather, in one respect, it was. It was a memory _I_ was personally averse to. It was useful in pushing _me_ out, and it blocked me from accessing other memories. But you are correct; it would not deter someone who meant you harm, like Voldemort, and it would give him information he could use against you…I am very sorry you had to go through that, Hermione. I had not realised how hard it was.” He absently rubbed his own hand in sympathy.

“You knew about the detentions, sir.”

“Yes, but I had not witnessed Professor Umbridge’s cruelty firsthand. Even knowing that I did everything I could to work against her before, when Harry was targeted, I feel like I have failed you as a teacher.”

“It wasn’t your fault, sir.”

“No, but there are things I could have done at the outset—worked harder to find a Defence Professor of my own, for example. But what’s done is done. You have shown strength in the face of a hardship that you never should have been asked to bear. I think we would do better to end for the day and for you to get some rest. Continue to help Harry if you feel up to it, but I will see you again next Saturday.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“You are most welcome, Hermione. Ah, it may interest you to know that Septima approached me this week asking if I knew any accredited tutors who would be willing to teach a muggle-born.”

“She did? What did you tell her?”

“I daresay I knew a couple of names she had not thought of. I have one idea that I am looking into personally. I will let you know if it bears fruit.”

“Oh, then, thank you for that, too.”

* * *

Hermione took Dumbledore’s advice and rested for the day. She helped Harry with meditation that evening as far as she could and worked on getting back to where she was before, though it was taking time to mentally recover from those detentions.

Hagrid held his first lesson on Tuesday, and he insisted on introducing his fifth years to the thestrals. Hermione didn’t have a problem with the beasts personally. She’d been able to see them pulling the carriages ever since Quirrell died in her first year. But many people thought they were dangerous, or at least bad omens, and then Umbridge showed up to inspect him and twisted his every word against him, and it was all very nasty. Hermione hoped she’d manage to talk a bit more sense into the large man after that, but she wasn’t holding her breath.

She still needed to approach Georgina about the D.A. The meeting this week was on Thursday. They’d started moving them around to avoid Umbridge’s suspicious eyes and to work around the ever-changing Quidditch practice schedules. So Hermione tracked Georgina down on Wednesday afternoon and asked to speak with her in an empty classroom. After surreptitiously checking her map to make sure no undesirables were nearby, Hermione carefully explained the situation to her.

“I want you to know I’ve already talked to your Aunt Septima about this, and she thinks it’s a good idea as long as you don’t get caught,” she said.

Georgina’s own suspicions were instantly pinged. “What’s this about, Hermione?” she said.

“Septima is worried that you’re not learning to defend yourself. Umbridge is keeping you from learning anything useful.”

“Yeah? And?”

“And Septima also agrees with me about Vol—sorry, You-Know-Who being back.” She used a phrase as a courtesy with Georgina since it could cause her actual trouble in Slytherin.

“Er…right…” she said nervously.

“So are you worried, too, Georgina? About not learning Defence?”

“Of course I am! There’s only so much I can get from the older Slytherins. But what else can I do?”

“Well, I thought I might be able to help you with that. Suppose that, hypothetically, there was a group of students assembling in secret to learn proper defensive spells. Would you be interested in joining?”

Georgina’s eyes narrowed: “There’s no way even _you_ would offer me that for nothing, Hermione. What’s the catch?”

“You have to sign a magical contract to keep it a secret.”

“A contract?! Aunt Septima said she was okay with that?!” Then, her brain caught up with her mouth, and she made the connection: “What does the contract do?”

“Let’s just say it would not be conducive for your complexion to break it.”

Georgina glared at her.

Hermione smiled. “Sorry, I had to try it. If you tell anyone, it’ll write ‘SNEAK’ in pimples across your face.”

Georgina’s expression softened, and she considered this. She made the next obvious connection a minute later: “This secret group of students. I assume there are no other Slytherins in it?”

“Not yet, but I’ll back you up, and I cleared it with the other leader.”

She thought about it for another minute, but her sense of self-preservation won out. “Okay, I can’t stand not learning how to protect myself,” she said. “I’ll do it.”

“Excellent,” Hermione said. “I was hoping you would. You know I worry about you, too.” She pulled a scroll of what appeared to be arithmancy notes out of her bag and touched her wand to it: “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.”

“Dumbledore’s Army?” Georgina gasped when she read the header. “Now wait just a minute—”

“It wasn’t my idea,” Hermione cut her off. She tapped her wand to what looked like a decorative phoenix symbol, which revealed the text of the contract, similar to the icons on the Mathemagician’s Map. “You can read the contract for yourself. It doesn’t require to to serve Dumbledore or anything, just to keep the secret.”

Georgina did, indeed, read the contract twice through. As a pureblood Slytherin, she knew to be careful about such things, but she accepted it and signed on as their twenty-fourth member.

“Great. Welcome to the D.A. Can you get away tomorrow night right after dinner without being noticed?”

“Sure.”

“Good. Meet Harry and me then on the seventh floor by the tapestry of the dancing trolls. Do you know where that is?”

“Um…yes, I remember.”

“Alright, we’ll see you then.”

* * *

“Georgina’s in,” Hermione told Septima in a brief visit the next day.

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “I’ll definitely feel better once she knows a few more spells. Thank you for this. By the way, have you heard back from any tutors, yet?”

“A couple, but nothing useful. Professors Shafiq and Hilliard responded and politely declined. I haven’t heard from any of the others.”

“You haven’t? What about Professor Slughorn?” Septima asked.

“No, I haven’t heard from him.”

“Really? But he sent _me_ a note saying he was honoured by the offer to teach such a gifted student, but he couldn’t possibly come out of retirement right now because he is “keeping his head down,” he said.”

“He sent one to you? I never got anything from him.”

“Strange. That’s not like him. Professor Slughorn isn’t one for keeping his head down, for starters. And he’s almost always courteous…ingratiating would be more accurate, in fact.”

“Then why would he send you a rejection and not me?”

“I don’t know, unless he never got your letter—Oh, I think I _do_ know. If he’s “keeping his head down,” then he probably believes about You-Know-Who being back, and he’s in hiding. And if he’s in hiding, he’s probably using a selective post ward so that only letters from people he trusts can get through.”

“But why? Most people who believe that aren’t hiding.”

“Hm, I’d have to check the dates, but I believe Professor Slughorn is the only one of You-Know-Who’s schoolteachers who is still working besides the Headmaster and Professor Binns. That might have something to do with it.”

Hermione shuddered at the thought of a young Voldemort. She wondered what he was like as a child. Was he always a sociopath? Or when did he start to turn…scary?

“It’s too bad,” Septima said. “I was thinking Slughorn would be a very good tutor for you.”

“You were?”

“Yes. He was my Potions teacher, you remember? He’s brilliant, well-connected, a very good teacher, and you see he has no problem with muggle-borns.”

“Well-connected?” Hermione said, confused.

“Oh, yes, he had a little club—the Slug Club, he called it, if you can believe it. He used it to cosy up to all the students who were famous or influential or were likely to be in the future.”

“Sounds kind of self-serving,” she pointed out.

“Oh, definitely, but he was Head of Slytherin. What did you expect? Oh, but not a Death Eater, of course, if you were worried. I still think he would have been good, though. Slughorn may be an incorrigible influence peddler, but he’s a genuine polymage—well-studied in just about every subject—and he’s enough of an intellectual that he appreciates brilliance for its own sake. You’d probably get along better than you think, if he were willing.”

“Fair enough, but that doesn’t help me now.”

“Yes, I understand…I think I’ll speak with the Headmaster again. He was the one who suggested him. I didn’t know he was still teaching. I’ll see if he knows anything.”

“Professor Dumbledore was the one? He mentioned—” She stopped. Her meetings with Dumbledore were supposed to be secret. “I mean, he would be a good resource. I hope he can help.”

“I’m sure he’ll find some way if he puts his mind to it,” Septima said. “If there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s that Albus Dumbledore always has some trick up his sleeve.”

Hermione could believe that.

* * *

Georgina arrived at the Room of Requirement just after Harry and Hermione. They barely had time to open the secret room. “I never knew there was a room here,” she said, gazing on the ornate door.

“It’s a hidden room,” Hermione said. “The elves told me about it a couple years ago. It turns into whatever kinds of room you need at the time, so we turned it into a training room. Anyway, this is Harry—have you met before?”

“No. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Potter,” she shook his hand nervously.

“Harry’s fine,” he replied. “Let’s go in.” They led Georgina inside, and the younger girl was in awe at once at the D.A.”s training room with its shelves of books and useful artifacts, the cushioned seating area, and the shooting gallery in the back with targets with Death Eater masks.

“Wow, this place has everything!” she said. “I thought only Aurors trained with targets like that.”

“They’re useful for everyone,” Hermione said. “They’ve done wonders for my aim. That’s not really something we practice much in class, and I couldn’t believe how bad some people were coming in.”

“Huh…So where’s everybody else who was on the list?”

“I asked you to come early so we could start catching you up and introduce you to the group properly.”

Georgina’s face fell: “They’re not gonna like me being here, are they?”

“Some of them won’t, but we’re both behind you, and we’re the leaders, so we’ll make sure they don’t cause you too much trouble.”

“I don’t know many defensive spells, either. A few the older Slytherins teach us some…er, in case the Gryffindors try to hex us,” she said nervously. “Am I gonna be really far behind? How long have you been doing this?”

“A few weeks,” Harry said. “You won’t be too badly off. We started with the basics for everyone because the Defence teachers here have been so spotty. The fake Moody was decent, but you’ll probably need a refresher in the staple spells that we’ve done so far, so we’ll start with that, now. We do new spells every meeting, so missing the previous ones won’t slow you down much, and we can ask Dennis to help you catch up, too.”

“Dennis…Creevey?”

“That’s right,” Hermione said.

“A Gryffindor?”

“Yes, but he’ll be okay. He looks up to Harry, and I’m his business partner, you know.”

“You are?” Georgina squeaked. “How?”

“Creevey Brothers Photography. Who do you think got them started?”

“Oh, right. I remember you talking about photos—I didn’t realise you’d got that far…So, where do we start?”

“We’ll start with a Disarming Charm,” Harry said. “Do you know it?”

It turned out Georgina was being modest—or perhaps was lowering expectations in typically Slytherin fashion. Her older housemates had given her a pretty good course on the basics. Their Slytherin solidarity and the fact that they were mostly opposed to Dumbledore meant Umbridge probably turned a blind eye to such activity, if she even knew. Typical double standard. However, Georgina’s aim did need quite a bit of work, as she had never had to cast farther than the width of her Common Room. She was amazed by how far Harry and Hermione could cast accurately, and that wasn’t easy to do. Hermione had never fired a muggle gun, but she was pretty sure aiming was harder with a wand. You had to bring it to just the right angle in the split second at the end of the wand motion, which was different for each spell and took a lot of muscle memory.

“You’re not going to be behind at all,” Harry told her. “At least, not behind Dennis. He does have trouble with the more advanced spells. Anything to add, Hermione?”

“Not right now. I think you’re pretty well up to speed. I think you should sit in the back while people arrive so we can introduce you to everyone at once.”

“Okay.”

She sat back by the targets while the rest of the D.A. arrived. Everyone on the list was still showing up, including Seamus, which was a good sign (although he still wasn’t very happy about it). Once everyone was there, Hermione stood up and faced the group.

“Good, we’re all here,” she said. “Before we begin, we have a new member tonight. Georgina, come out please.”

Georgina stepped out of the shadows and braced herself. She was expecting resistance, and she wasn’t disappointed. Despite her small and hopefully-nonthreatening stature, many of the group only noticed that there was someone with green-trimmed robes in the room for the first time.

Lee Jordan was the loudest. “What?! A Slytherin?! No way!” he yelled.

“What are you thinking?” yelled a sandy-haired Irish boy. “She’ll turn us straight over to Umbridge!”

“I’m not teaching a snake to hex us better,” a black boy agreed.

“She could be a spy for Malfoy,” said a blond girl in Hufflepuff robes.

“Leave her alone,” Hermione cut them off. She’d barely raised her voice—just enough to be heard over the rabble, but the group quieted down at once. Georgina was awed that she commanded such respect. “Everyone, this is Georgina Vector. She’s Professor Vector’s grand-niece. She’s not with Umbridge, Seamus. Umbridge and Professor Vector don’t get along at all. And she’s not a spy, Hannah, and even if she were, I made her sign the same contract all of you signed. She can’t tell anyone about the D.A. And Dean, she’s twelve, she won’t be much of a threat, even with our help. She’s just here to learn to defend herself, like the rest of us…I trust her.”

“She’s still a Slytherin,” Lee said. “No good comes out of there.”

“Don’t talk like that about Slytherin,” Georgina said, stepping forward. “Merlin himself was in Slytherin, and he was the greatest wizard ever.”

“She’s right,” Hermione agreed. “Plenty of Slytherins have been very good wizards. And we need them. Didn’t any you hear what the Sorting Hat said at the beginning of the year? We have to unite—that means _all_ the houses, not just three of them. We’re strongest when we all stand together.”

“That’s hard to do when we can’t trust them,” said Angelina Johnson.

“There are plenty of trustworthy Slytherins, Angelina. A quarter of the population can’t be evil, or we would have lost a long time ago. Not to mention it’s a horribly cynical way to think. Professor Vector was in Slytherin, and she’s a very good teacher, and a fair one—not at all like Snape. Ask any Arithmancy student. And plenty of Aurors came from Slytherin—”

“And Death Eaters!”

“And You-Know-Who!” cried the naysayers.

“That doesn’t mean anything!” Hermione snapped. “Your house doesn’t define you…” She paused and repeated more softly, “Your house doesn’t define you, and we’ve got the notion into our heads that it does. Think about it. How many of you could have gone to another house than the one you’re in? Neville, didn’t you say you could have gone to Hufflepuff instead of Gryffindor.”

“Yeah,” Neville answered. “I didn’t really think I was brave enough for Gryffindor, but the Sorting Hat talked me into it.”

“And Luna, you could have gone to Gryffindor _or_ Hufflepuff. And as for me, the Sorting Hat actually told me I was _better_ suited for Ravenclaw. It even started to say it out loud, but it changed its mind because it thought Gryffindor would do _me_ more good, and it _has_ beyond my wildest dreams. But did I cut off the Ravenclaw part of myself? Of course not. I worked on improving _both_ parts of myself, not restricting myself to just my Gryffindor side. Being Sorted into a house shouldn’t mean diminishing yourself.”

“None of those are Slytherin, though,” Angelina said.

Hermione opened her mouth again, but to her surprise, Harry stepped forward. “ _I_ could have been in Slytherin,” he said. Most of the D.A. gasped. Georgina stared up at him with wide eyes. The Boy-Who-Lived in Slytherin? It was unthinkable. Yet no one dared contradict him. “The Sorting Hat offered me Slytherin,” he continued. “It said I could be great there, even, but I told it I’d go anywhere but there. The only Slytherins I knew about at the time were Voldemort and Malfoy, and I didn’t want anything to do with them. I still worried about it for a while, but Dumbledore told me later that it’s our _choices_ that define who we are. And if Georgina _chooses_ to defy Umbridge and the bullies in Slytherin to join us, I say good for her.”

Everyone was silent, and quite a few of them looked properly shamed for harassing Georgina, but just to make sure they got the message, Hermione added, “I agree with Harry: she that is not against us is for us. And just so you know, the _second_ time I was Sorted—this year—the Hat spent most of that time trying to convince _me_ to go to Slytherin. _Me_ —a muggle-born. Luckily, I managed to tell it off because I wanted to stay with my friends, but I’m not afraid to think like a Slytherin in order to do what needs to be done, and you shouldn’t be either.”

“Wow. Sorry, Hermione,” Lee said.

“Don’t apologise to me,” she insisted.

“We’re sorry, Georgina,” Susan Bones said, and she was the first to come up and shake Georgina’s hand. “We _should_ be more accepting.”

“Thank you, Miss Bones,” Georgina replied.

Not everyone looked happy with the arrangement, but it looked like they would all tolerate it, so Hermione thought that was a good first step to house unity, small as it was. But Hannah Abbott still looked unhappy, and she made her opinion known: “It’s fine if you want her to join, Hermione, but if we’re going to bring in Slytherins, we should be able to recruit more Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws, too. We’re still mostly Gryffindors here, you know.”

“We’ve never had a problem with that,” Hermione said. “Just as long as they’re people we trust. Did you have anyone in mind?”

“Honestly, we should’ve asked Justin to come ages ago,” said Susan. “Muggle-borns will be especially at risk. Sophie, too, and Ernie will probably want to come along with him. And…what about Zach, Hannah?”

“Are you kidding? He’s a total arse, Susie.”

“That’s no reason to keep him from learning Defence.”

“No…but I’m not sure we should trust him yet. I’m not gonna risk expulsion for him. We’ll see what Justin and Ernie say, okay?”

“Fine.”

“Alright,” Hermione said. “Cedric, any ideas?”

“Um, not from the upper year Hufflepuffs, no, and I gave a hint to Roger, but he said he’s fine on his own.”

“Cho? Luna? Padma?”

Cho shook her head: “I told Marietta what I was allowed to, but she wasn’t interested.”

“My roommates wouldn’t be, either,” Luna told her.

“Anthony would be interested,” Padma said, “but I think most of Ravenclaw want to stay neutral and keep their heads down. He might be able to give you a couple more names.”

“Good. That’s a start. Let me or Harry know if you think of any more. Harry, should we get started?”

“Right,” Harry said. “I want to work some more on Shield Charms today. I know most of you got it last time, but some of you were spotty, and this is a really important skill to have…”

The D.A. practised Shield Charms for about twenty minutes until everyone but Georgina and Dennis could cast them fairly reliably. For those two, there was little hope of them managing a spell that was three years ahead of them, so Hermione asked Dennis to walk Georgina through the spells they had covered in the last few weeks. After that, Harry had the group try a couple new hexes, but Hermione felt distracted. She kept thinking about the two woefully under-prepared second-years and her conversations with Septima over the past few weeks. She thought over the list of new spells she had created, and she realised she had one that might be useful…except Harry still had his little Occlumency problem. Well, nothing for it. She’d just have to ask him to bow out.

She walked over close to Harry and whispered to him, “Can you make an excuse to leave early? I thought of a new spell I want to teach the whole group, and I don’t think you should be here for it.”

Harry groaned: “Oh, come on, Hermione, really? I already have to put up with Snape’s lessons and not looking you in the eye—”

“I’m sorry, Harry, but we agreed no new spells until you learn Occlumency. If you work at it, I’m sure I can fill you in by Christmas.”

Harry grumbled and muttered something like, “You’d better,” but he went along with it. “Alright, everyone, listen up,” he called. “I just remembered that I have a…a thing that I need to work on for Dumbledore right now, so I’m gonna have Hermione wrap it up.”

“Thanks, Harry,” she said sincerely. He nodded curtly and left the room, and she sighed inwardly. She knew he was getting impatient with all this, but what else could she do? “Okay, everyone,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about how the younger students are kind of out of luck when it comes to Defence. They’re not learning the basics they need to protect themselves, and Umbridge is worse than useless. I know a lot of you have brothers or sisters in first or second year.” The baby boom after the last war had seen to that. “And I know we’ve got a couple second-years here now, but we can’t afford to take all of them.”

“I think most of us don’t mind keeping them out of this,” Katie Bell spoke up. “I don’t want Karl risking expulsion like I am. I’m nearly of age, and I have my O.W.L.s, so I’ll be alright. I’m doing this so he doesn’t have to.” There were nods of agreement around the room.

“Oh,” Hermione said. That was a relief. And it made sense why no one but Colin had suggested bringing a younger sibling into the group. Sometimes, she was still a bit ignorant about the sibling dynamic, being an only child. “Well, then, I’m guessing a lot of you are also teaching your younger siblings a few basic jinxes in secret?” There were more nods, and a few grins. “I’m glad to hear that. But I still worry that without a decent class, the younger years will fall further behind.

“Umbridge is actually half-right for the younger kids. For them, the best thing to do is to run to get help—but they also need to be able to distract or slow down an attacker first. The basic duelling spells and jinxes are a good start, but they’re easily blocked. Even the stronger spells can be, too. Um…Fred, give me a Shield Charm, and make sure it’s a strong one.”

“Uh…okay?” Fred said, and George conspicuously inched away from him, worried what his girlfriend would do. Fred brandished his wand and shouted, _“Protego!”_ And a transparent shield appeared in front of him.

Hermione raised her wand at him and cast, _“Reducto!”_ The crowd gasped. It was a stronger curse than any they had used in the full group yet. It splashed against Fred’s shield with a flash and a bang, and the recoil pushed him back a bit, but he held his ground, and he wouldn’t really have been slowed down at all in a fight.

“So you see that even powerful curses can be blocked. I want to teach you a new spell that I invented myself,” she continued, causing some excited whispers in the group. “This spell will actually do some good at distracting an attacker even if they have a Shield Charm up. Now, there are plenty of upper level spells that can do that, but this one should be easy cast for a second-year or even a bright first-year. Something you can teach your little brother or sister—without saying where it came from, obviously. “It’s very simple because, basically, all it does is compress an _Incendio_ spell down into a compact bolt of magic.”

Her idea for this spell had actually been to try to recreate a muggle stun grenade without having to go to the trouble of leaching magnesium powder from the soil. The result had been less powerful than she had hoped, but it was still good for this purpose. “The wand motion is the same as _Incendio_ , but with a sharp jab at the end—the quicker the better. And the incantation is _Extonio_. Fred, you might want to close your eyes.”

Fred squeezed his eyes shut a split second before Hermione fired the spell at him. Instead of just splashing against his shield, it exploded with a flash bright enough to momentarily blind him and a bang loud enough to make the whole room jump. Some of the D.A. applauded. She guessed she’d earned back a few people’s loyalty now after the whole Slytherin issue, and she had a hunch this meeting would go down as one of their best. (Of course, what wizard didn’t like explosions?)

“Thank you, Fred,” Hermione said. “That wouldn’t have done a whole lot of damage if it had hit him, and you can see it didn’t do a thing to his Shield Charm, but it definitely would have distracted him. Now, I want everyone to line up to try the spell on the targets. Just two at a time, now. We don’t want anyone going deaf.”

* * *

“Good morning, Hermione,” Professor Dumbledore greeted her in her next Occlumency lesson. “I hope you are feeling better this week?”

“Much better. Thank you, sir,” she answered.

“Excellent. Before we begin, may I ask if you have made any more progress in finding a tutor for the spring term?”

“No, I haven’t. The ones who got back to me all declined for one reason or another. And there are so few of them. In the muggle world, you can find more tutors within walking distance of my house.”

“There is greater demand in the muggle world, I am sure,” he said. “However, I believe you are in luck. My search has borne fruit. I was able to get in contact with an old colleague of mine, Horace Slughorn, who was Professor Snape’s predecessor here at Hogwarts.”

“Oh, but he already turned me down, Professor,” Hermione said. “Septima was guessing he’s in hiding from Voldemort.”

“And he so is. He did not answer my letters at all. However, when Septima informed me that she was still able to get a letter through to him, I sent him a message through her to arrange a secret meeting. Once I was able to meet him face to face, I was able to convince him that it would be in his interest to tutor you.”

“You did? How did you manage that, sir?” She was pretty sure Professor Dumbledore wouldn’t go for the…nastier forms of magical persuasion.

“It was very simple, actually. I offered him our Headquarters as a safe house—with Sirius’s permission, of course. Septima was correct that he fears for his safety, and a safe house under Fidelius would be very valuable to him.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose, the wheels turned in her mind. Even with the Fidelius keeping the location a secret, that was a big thing to offer. Probably not for Sirius; he liked her enough to do it just for the heck of it. But Dumbledore was careful about whom he let into the Order—actually, he hadn’t even said anything about the Order. She smelled a catch somewhere here. She decided to test the waters. “You did that for me, sir?” she said, trying to project an image of wide-eyed gratitude.

Professor Dumbledore must have sensed her suspicion because he answered, “I would have made an effort for any of my students, Hermione, but I admit I had an additional motive in searching out Horace. You see, Horace does not wish to join the Order for the same reason he desires a safe house: what he described as the “mortality rate” of our group. However, I believe he could be a valuable ally, even as a non-member. And what better point of contact could he have as an ally than someone who is only peripherally involved and who has an unrelated and legitimate reason to meet with him regularly?”

“So you want me to…what? Keep tabs on him?” She asked.

“At this time, only to befriend him—to stay in his good graces, which I assure you will not be difficult. There may be more later, but nothing onerous for either of you, I think. You may consider it another assignment for the Order, if you wish, after your Occlumency lessons with Harry have ended.”

Somehow, these assignments for the Order weren’t turning out at all like she’d expected. She thought she would be inventing spells or something similar. Granted, she _was_ probably the best person for both of the assignments Dumbledore had given her, assuming his description was accurate, but still, it was unexpected. “You know I’ll have to get my parents to sign off on this to stay in Britain for the spring term,” she reminded him.

“Of course,” he said, “and if you or your parents wish for you to return to France after considering your options, I will still offer to connect you with Horace with no strings attached.”

“Thank you, sir. In that case, I’d be happy to study with him. I’ve already had Septima help me with the paperwork.” She handed Dumbledore some parchment. “If you could send them to Professor Slughorn—”

“Certainly, Hermione, and thank you once again. Now, I believe we should begin the lesson.”

Hermione’s Occlumency skills were definitely improving. She could tell she had a long way to go, but she kept Professor Dumbledore from delving into her memories for longer this time, and she was able to slow him down more when he did get in. She reflected again that he really was an excellent teacher as he was able to give her tips to improve her technique that had an immediate effect. The meditation was doing some good for her temper, too. She had grown calmer over the past week as she practised (though she still seethed when she thought about Umbridge).

Nonetheless, despite her progress, Dumbledore soon found her memory of this week’s D.A. meeting. He had taken an interest in the group, and he thought it an appropriate and relatively safe target for his probe—and he also explained that Voldemort would likely want to probe for recent tactical information of that sort.

“Ah, Georgina Vector,” he said. “Very interesting. A good choice. I think she will be useful far beyond her own skills.”

“You do?”

“I do. I am pleased that you took the Sorting Hat’s warning about divisions among the houses to heart, Hermione. I was beginning to fear that its song had fallen entirely on deaf ears. But if even one Slytherin is seen standing against the Dark, it will show that the house is not totally lost.”

“I suppose so.”

“You are doing good work, Hermione. Do not be discouraged if it seems inadequate now. I think Miss Vector will make a greater impact than you know.”

Wondering exactly what he meant by that, Hermione left to write to her parents.

* * *

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_Okay, I need to fill you in on what_ _’s been going on here. I’m pretty sure Professor Umbridge is looking for an excuse to get me expelled. I know that sounds extreme, and yes, I’m probably safe because she has it in for Harry_ _ much _ _more, and she hasn_ _’t managed to do it to him. But she_ _ did _ _give me a week_ _’s detention for talking back to her and calling her a shill for the Ministry, which I admit was my fault (even though it’s true), but it was really unpleasant and I assert it was much more than I deserved. She’s also trying to get me excluded from those awards I mentioned._

_The important thing is that I found out that even if I_ _’m expelled, I’m required to be enrolled in an alternative program, and they can make it very hard for me if I’m not. So I’ve been playing it safe and keeping my head down even more than I would have anyway, and I started looking for an accredited tutor. I know we thought it would be nearly impossible to find a tutor who would teach a muggle-born, but I got lucky, and Professor Dumbledore found one for me. His name is Horace Slughorn, and he’s a well-liked retired Hogwarts teacher, so he’s definitely good._

_So the thing I need you to do right now is sign the enclosed papers for the tutoring agreement in triplicate, but DON_ _’T date them. If worst comes to worst, and I do get expelled, they’ll need to be dated to the day of the expulsion. I’ll have Dobby tell you if that happens. Keep one copy in a safe place, send me a copy, and if anyone comes from the Ministry asking about me, show them the third copy. That will take care of things until Christmas Holidays, and if all goes well, we won’t need to worry about it at all._

_However, this tutoring agreement is perfectly good for the entire spring term, so I wanted to ask how you felt about me learning with Professor Slughorn in the spring rather than going back to Beauxbatons. I_ _’d rather stay in England, and there are some definite benefits. I could still work with Septima on my mastery face to face. (I’ll be able to visit Hogwarts at Professor Dumbledore’s discretion.) I would be able to stay at home with you, obviously. And I could work at my own pace. (And yes, Mum, it would be nice to be able to visit George in Hogsmeade, too.) Professor Dumbledore also thinks I would do better with Professor Slughorn, so I hope you’ll approve of the idea. I recognise that it would be safer for us as a family in France, but the danger isn’t that high for the time being, and this would be better for my academic career, so as long as we keep the options to sell the house and the practice open, we should be fine._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

 

“Well, that’s a new wrinkle, isn’t it?” Dan Granger said after he and his wife read the letter.

“You see, this is why I don’t like it when she holds things back from us,” Emma said. “It always seemed to end in completely mad letters like this one.”

“What do you think of her idea, though?”

“Oh, I certainly wouldn’t mind having her at home. I agree it would be safer in France, but we’ve been alright here so far. I don’t think I have a problem with it.”

“I suppose not…” Dan looked at the letter again. “I’m a little worried about these detentions. She was talking about them using corporal punishment before. I hope they didn’t do that to her.”

“Oh, dear. So do I. Do you think she would have said…? She never did really explain what they did to Harry.”

“I don’t know. I hope she’d tell us, but I think we should have a talk at Christmas if she doesn’t say anything before then.”

“Yes, good idea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current Dumbledore’s Army Membership (28 total):  
> Leaders: Hermione Granger, Harry Potter  
> Gryffindor: Katie Bell, Colin Creevey, Dennis Creevey, Seamus Finnigan, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Neville Longbottom, Parvati Patil, Sally-Anne Perks, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley  
> Hufflepuff: Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Cedric Diggory, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan, Sophie Roper  
> Ravenclaw: Cho Chang, Anthony Goldstein, Luna Lovegood, Padma Patil  
> Slytherin: Georgina Vector
> 
> Extonio: parallel pseudo-Latin construction to Incendio from the root for “thunder.” Credit to troyguffey for this idea.


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is a proud member of the Indecent Minority—oh, wait, wrong headline. Um, she also owns Harry Potter.
> 
> Credit to essarg for pointing out the issue of Lavender and the prophecy.

Hermione extended the tape measure to the corner of the trilithon and noted the distance. “That’s six feet, ten and one-quarter inches,” she said.

“Six feet, ten and one-quarter inches,” Sonya squeaked, and she made a note on the parchment blueprint.

Hermione had had to send to her parents for a tape measure long enough to measure the huge circle that made up the anchor stones of Hogwarts Castle. She had two puzzles she wanted to solve about this place before she left: why the stones weren’t arranged perfectly symmetrically, and why she couldn’t seem to map the space at the top of the Great Tower. The centre of the circle lay directly underneath that strange point hundreds of feet above, so it shouldn’t be that complicated.

The first problem Hermione was pretty sure had to do with the alignment of the ley lines. She had pretty quickly determined that the circle was perfectly aligned with true north, and that the arrangement was reflected north and south, as well as east and west. Now, she was carefully measuring the positions of each corner of each of the six trilithons in one quadrant of the circle. Dobby held the other end of the hundred-foot tape measure, while Sonya, whose handwriting was better, noted the distances on a blueprint Hermione had drawn up. The two elves were helping her get the job done much faster than would have been able to otherwise.

Hermione had also borrowed Colin’s camera to take a few pictures, but she wasn’t going to bother photographing all of the thousands upon thousands of runes that adorned the anchor stones. She could only guess at what a lot of the runes did. Some appeared to be intended to send and receive commands from other stone circles. Perhaps there was one at the Ministry for easy access. She seemed to remember hearing about a similar arrangement in France: a nationwide network of rune stones controlled from Paris, but anchored to a circle at the strongest ley line convergence in the country. In France that place was at Beaune, a long way from Beauxbatons. In Britain, she thought it was at Hogwarts, but it was possible that was just bragging.

As for the second problem, that was a little harder. She saw some runes that looked to be related to the geometry of the wards, but she didn’t have time to work out the equations, so she took a photo for later. She’d already considered the possibility that there was some kind of mathematical singularity at the very top of the tower, but that didn’t explain why the entire turret above the fifteenth floor should be inaccessible to mapping.

“Ten feet three inches exactly,” she called another dimension.

“Ten feet three inches,” Sonya repeated.

It didn’t take them long to get all of the measurements, and after that, Hermione had just one more stop. She walked back over to the section of the stone floor where the runes connecting the wards to her Map and the Marauder’s Map were located, got out a hammer and chisel, and began carving a couple additional runes.

“What is you doing, Miss Hermione?” Sonya asked.

“I’m adding a subroutine to detect large magical creatures in the castle—larger than humans, that is,” she said over the ringing blows of the chisel. I realised that we’ve had a mountain troll and a basilisk roaming this castle since I’ve been here, and nobody was able to track them…The wards aren’t really designed to identify animals like that, but it should…be able to tag…there—any moving object big enough and magical enough to be a dangerous beast.”

She finished the runes and then laid out the Mathemagician’s Map and activated the corresponding runes she’d added to it. Sure enough, there was one such creature identified. A large, pulsing red dot labelled _Rubeus Hagrid_.

“Hmm, I was afraid of that. Hagrid also meets the parameters for a dangerous beast. I’ll have to see if I can grandfather him out. But at least it’s working.” Sadly, that was all she could do for now. The little information box for the Great Tower would remain frustratingly vague.

Instead of tiny, hard-to-read animations, anyplace there was a trick door or a secret passage, Hermione had drawn a little icon of a key, which, when tapped with a wand, would turn into a pop-up box telling how to get through it. Unfortunately, all she could write for that one was, _Great Tower Upper Levels: Weird, endless space-distorting magic. Proceed with caution._

“Sonya will be missing Miss Hermione and Dobby when you is gone again,” her elf friend said as they climbed back up the stairs. “It is too bad you cannot be staying at Hogwarts for all of your schooling, miss.”

“Yes, I know, but those are the times we live in,” Hermione said. “And I’m afraid it’s going to get worse before it gets better.”

“All the Hogwarts elves is worried, miss,” Sonya said. “We remembers what it was like when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was strong. It was being bad for us even here. And house elves is not made for big adventures and dark times…Although…” She whispered conspiratorially. “…I has had fun with some of them.”

“You have?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Yes, Miss Hermione. Dobby has had more adventures with you than most house elves ever does, and I has been with you sometimes. It was very scary, but Sonya was glad to be helping yous escape danger and stop bad wizards.”

Hermione and Dobby both began to look at Sonya in a new light. They knew she was outgoing and liked to push the social boundaries, but this was new “Sonya, I think you are the closest thing to a Gryffindor house elf I’ve ever met,” Hermione said, causing the elf to blush. “And I think it’s brilliant. Don’t ever let the other elves tell you off for it.”

Dobby nodded firmly. “I helps Miss Hermione and Harry Potter and their friends any way Dobby can,” he said. “It is good work for elves. I am glad you wants to help wizards, too.”

“I think you is wise, Dobby,” Sonya replied. “Cooking and cleaning is good elf work, but we shoulds be ready to help wizards with big things, too, like how Head Elf Hooky helped Godric Gryffindor.”

Hermione remembered the story—how Hooky, the first Head Elf at Hogwarts, had played a decisive role in Gryffindor’s duel with Salazar Slytherin, which had ended with Slytherin’s exile from the castle. Of course, wizards paid so little attention to elves that they rarely had such an opportunity. “Well, I certainly won’t ever forget how much help elves can be,” she promised. “And Sonya, if things get too bad here with Umbridge, and if you have a chance to get away, you can always come to me. I sure I can find a way to make arrangements for you.”

Sonya shuddered at the thought, but she nodded weakly. “Thank you, Miss Hermione. Sonya will remember that.”

“Dobby will miss Sonya, too,” Dobby said softly.

“Thank you, Dobby,” she said.

* * *

Since Hermione was trying to keep her head down, and Harry was pretty much forced to, things quieted down at Hogwarts as they moved into December. Hermione was mostly marking time until she could get out at Christmas. She still had mixed feelings about leaving Harry, George, and the other Weasleys behind, but she was firmly resolved that it was safer this way—not that Umbridge couldn’t pull the same stunt with Ron or Ginny, but Dumbledore could probably find accommodations for purebloods like them in a trice. Harry was pretty well stuck, though.

The one sore spot was the continuing war of words, heated correspondence, and cautiously-written letters to the editor about the Gamp and Wenlock Prizes. That was not going well. The letters Hermione had received and saw printed from _Transfiguration Today_ and _Annals of Arithmancy_ pretty much said she was deserving of the prizes without coming out and saying it, but they hedged this statement with “concerns” and “evaluations” and “public significance” and similar weasel words that basically boiled down to the Ministry not wanting them to honour someone who was a “worrying political agitator” and an “alarmist.” That, apparently, was enough reason to seriously consider not giving her and Septima and Rebecca two prestigious international awards for which they were clearly qualified. That was what happened when the prize-giving associations were based in Britain and affiliated, however loosely, with their home country’s Ministry. Politics trumped all.

The struggle also led Rebecca, though she couldn’t properly be angry at Hermione, to direct more unkind words at her amid her more general complaints about how unfair the situation was.

“I’m sorry you got wrapped up in this, Rebecca,” Hermione told her more than once. “I know it’s really unfair to you. But neither of us could have seen Umbridge coming when we published. It was something we couldn’t control.”

“Well, that doesn’t help me much now, does it?” Rebecca said.

“I’m doing all I can,” she replied, though she had to wonder. There _was_ one thing she could do, but it was drastic. She even wrote home to ask her parents for advice, but the reply she got wasn’t very helpful:

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_We_ _’re sorry you’re having such trouble about these awards. You clearly deserve them if we understand the way research works in the magical world at all, but if the Ministry is determined the railroad you, there may be very little you can do. The only thing we could suggest is a larger letter-writing campaign, like you did for Harry, but it sounds like most of the press is on the Ministry’s side, so that might not help. You said your friend Luna’s father publishes a magazine. Could he be of any help?_

_Unfortunately, this isn_ _’t a decision we can make for you. You’re going to have to use your own judgement. Like it or not, it sounds like anything you do will be a political act. Just be conscious of what message it’s likely to send, how effective it’s likely to be, and what the consequences will be. And know that we’ll support you in whatever decision you make._

_Love from,_

_Mum and Dad_

 

So she would have to use her own judgement. Well, she would do that. _The Quibbler_ didn’t have much readership, although she would keep it in mind. The problem was that when she _did_ consider the message she was sending, the consequences, and especially the likely effectiveness of each course of action open to her, they all seemed to be pointed in the same direction.

Hermione didn’t get much sleep that night, but by morning, she had made her decision.

“Rebecca, I need to talk to you,” she said when she approached the older Ravenclaw the next day.

“If you’re here to apologise again, Granger, you can save it,” she said. “We’ve already been over this.”

“Actually, I had something different to say,” Hermione said, and Rebecca stopped and looked at her. Hermione took a deep breath. “I’ve withdrawn my name.”

Rebecca’s eyes widened. “What?” she said, certain she’d misunderstood.

“I wrote to _Transfiguration Today_ and _Annals of Arithmancy_ this morning and withdrew my name from consideration for the Gamp and Wenlock prizes.”

_“What?”_

“Without admitting to anything,” she clarified, “and while still insisting that you deserved the awards for your part in the work. They’ll be able to give them just to you now without tying me to them.”

Rebecca was speechless. Her mouth opened and closed several times as she couldn’t find the words to say. She eventually settled on “ _Why?_ Why would you do that?”

“Because deep down, I knew that Umbridge would never let me receive those awards, and I have more important battles to be fighting,” Hermione said firmly.

“But…but still, this ought to be the crowning moment of your career! I would’ve fought tooth and nail for it in your position. Hell, that’s what I’ve _been_ doing for the past month!”

“Rebecca, I’m still young, even by Arithmancer standards—young and still studying new branches of maths. I have plenty of time to make a name for myself, but I have to focus on surviving the war first….And also…Even though I don’t care for your attitude—to be frank, I’ve _never_ cared for your attitude right from the start—but it’s not fair to you to be shut out of these awards because of a stupid political feud that I’m tied up in. I know how much they mean to you. At least you can still get them.”

Rebecca couldn’t speak again, and she started to turn pink. Hermione knew she’d embarrassed her with that last bit. Rebecca was proud and wouldn’t want to give up the awards, but she would still feel uncomfortable about Hermione going all noble on her.

“I…thank you, Hermione,” she said at last. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“No, I didn’t, but I thought it was the best statement I could make—withdrawing on my own terms before they could shut me out. Think of it as a protest.”

“A protest? Wow. Hermione, I really hope I never have to live your life.”

“That makes two of us, Rebecca,” she said.

Predictably, Umbridge wasn’t shy about gloating once she found out what Hermione had done. “Finally, the truth comes out,” the toad woman grinned. “You’re just a mediocre, fifth-year spellcrafter riding on the coattails of the truly gifted from more established families.”

Hermione was ready for her, though. “I did not admit to anything, Professor,” she said. “I merely determine that it would be beneficial to all involved if I withdrew. You can believe whatever you want to believe. I know the truth, and that’s enough.”

“Hmph. Yes, well…do try to be less disruptive in the future.”

“Of course, Professor.”

She felt like she needed a shower after that, but at least she only had a couple more weeks.

* * *

As Hermione prepared to leave, one of the remaining chores she had to do was to close out her study group with Greengrass and Davis. She didn’t advertise her plans to leave widely, and to the extent she did, she was content to let most people think she was still going to Beauxbatons, so she didn’t clue them in until their final meeting of the term. Needless to say, they were surprised at her true motivations.

“I’ve got to say, Granger,” Greengrass said, “I never pegged you as one to give up. You don’t seem like the type who’ll stop for anything.”

“I may be Gryffindor, Greengrass, but I’m smart enough to know when to stop beating my head against a wall,” Hermione replied. “And anyway, this was the plan from the start. My parents didn’t want me to come back to Hogwarts, and they were really angry when the Ministry forced me to. I was always planning to leave again after Christmas Holidays. But here’s the thing—and keep this to yourselves till the train leaves, if you don’t mind—I consider it a victory because I found a way that I don’t actually have to leave Britain.”

“You’re _not_ going back to Beauxbatons?” Davis said in surprise.

“Nope.”

“How?” asked Greengrass. “You’d need a tutor, and no offence, but most of them are elite purebloods.”

“Most of them are, but Septima knows one who cares about academic potential just as much as family history: Horace Slughorn.”

The other girls’ eyes widened. “Slughorn?” Greengrass said. “The old Potions Master? He’s supposed to be _really_ good.” She thought a bit more. “Is he good at the other subjects, though?”

“Septima says he is.” It was half true. She’d relied more on Professor Dumbledore’s report of him. “She did call him an incorrigible influence peddler, but if he can teach better than Umbridge, that’s good enough for me.”

“He’ll be _way_ better than Umbridge,” Davis said. “I think I’m jealous, now. Looks like you’ll be the only one to pass your O.W.L.”

“I don’t think I’ll be the _only_ one,” Hermione said knowingly.

“Well, I know I won’t,” she grumbled.

“Sure you will, Tracey,” Greengrass said. “I told you you can come to my place to practice over Yule.”

“Daphne, even if I come for Yule _and_ Ostara, that’ll probably only be enough to scrape an Acceptable on the practical.”

“You’re worrying too much, Tracey.”

Hermione thought she saw an opening. “Davis, can I give you some advice?” she said.

“Advice?”

“About learning practical Defence?”

Greengrass and Davis grew suspicious. “Why?” Greengrass said. “Can you get around Umbridge’s rules? And if you can, why tell us?”

“Because I really appreciate you helping me this year,” Hermione said. “Not many Slytherins will give a Gryffindor the time of day, let alone a muggle-born.”

“What can we say?” Greengrass said. “We’re like Slughorn. We care more about academic potential.”

“That’s a very good policy. But I want to tell you—both of you, but especially you, Davis, since you’re worried—when you come back for spring term, if you’re still worried about passing your Defence O.W.L., _and_ if you’re willing to swear yourselves to secrecy because, yes, Umbridge has her rules…” She considered how to put it. “…you can talk to Harry—”

“Potter?!” Greengrass spat. “Are you barmy? You’re one thing, Granger, but Potter is _persona non grata_ in Slytherin.”

“All the more reason for secrecy, then. We have ways of keeping your involvement from becoming known.”

“We?” Davis asked.

“That’s what I said.”

“And Potter would be willing to help us?”

“If I put in a good word for you, I think he will.”

“What if we don’t want to pick sides, Granger?” Greengrass said, more carefully than before.

“You’ll have to pick sides sooner or later,” Hermione told them. “If you really believe Voldemort is back—” They flinched. “—which I think most of Slytherin does in private, you’ll either be for him or against him. _He_ thinks in absolutes.” She let that sink in and saw the two girls shudder. “Just something to think about. Now, any last words of wisdom about Charms?”

“A few,” Davis snapped out of it, “but if you’re going to be learning from Horace Slughorn, I don’t think you’ll need them. Got any for Arithmancy?”

“Lots, but at your current level, I’ll restrain myself to giving you some pointers about parametric functions that ought to make computing wand motions a lot easier for you…”

Hermione thought the conversation had been productive. She wanted to tell Harry about her conversation the next day, but she soon discovered that there had been a commotion while she slept, out of the way on the top floor of the girls’ side of the tower, and Harry and all of the Weasleys were no longer in the castle.

* * *

Neville looked so nervous the next day that he wouldn’t speak to Hermione about the incident above a whisper. “Harry was screaming in his sleep,” he told her. “It was awful—sounded like he was dying. He woke Ron and me straightaway. I don’t know how Dean and Seamus slept through. Then, he woke up and started shouting about Ron’s dad being attacked. I thought he’d gone mad, but I went to Professor McGonagall for help, and the next thing I knew she came and took him and Ron and the Twins away—and I guess Ginny, too. I haven’t seen them since.”

“Did you hear what was going on with Harry?”

“I don’t know. I think he had some kind of vision. McGonagall seemed to think Ron’s dad really _had_ been attacked.”

“He had a _vision_?” she gasped.

“Yeah, I guess.”

That was not good. Harry’s Occlumency was supposed to have stopped that. Well, there was only one person she could talk to about visions: Professor Dumbledore. She had to try his office three times before she caught him when he was in, but he did finally take the time to talk to her.

“I’m afraid Arthur Weasley was attacked last night in the course of his duties for the Order, by a large snake sent by Voldemort. He is currently in stable condition in St. Mungo’s. He is not entirely out of the woods yet, but the Healers are confident he will recover.”

“That’s horrible,” she said. “How did he—? What was he—?”

“It is probably best if you don’t know the details, Hermione,” Dumbledore said.

“Neville said Harry had a vision of it happening, Professor.”

“That is correct.”

“Why couldn’t he block it out with Occlumency? I thought he was making progress.”

“Indeed, Professor Snape reports that Harry has made admirable progress with Occlumency, though he of course didn’t put it in those terms. However, it appears that Harry experienced an unusually strong vision from Voldemort—quite by accident, I’m sure—and he was unprepared for such a powerful assault on his mind, especially in his sleep. I am still confident he will be able to become proficient. I believe you were worried about him keeping your secrets? He should should be able to do that long before he can block out the visions. Nonetheless, you should continue to encourage him and remind him of both motives.”

“Of course, Professor.”

“Very good. And now, I think you must prepare to leave. It is sad to see you go again, but I trust you will be in good hands.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hermione left the Headmaster’s office deep in thought and after dinner returned to her dorm to pack up. She would have to say goodbye to her roommates again tonight, for all the complications that offered. Things had been different this year. Sally-Anne and Lily still weren’t speaking to each other, and it was clearly a strain on both of them. Parvati and Lavender were still close when they discussed fashion and gossip and whatever other things teenage girls liked to talk about. (And here Hermione was spending her time inventing hexes!) But those two had simply agreed not to speak about Voldemort with each other.

“Is it true?” Parvati asked her. “The rumours say Ron’s dad was attacked last night. Was he? All the Weasleys are gone today—”

“Yes, it’s true, Parv,” Hermione said sadly. “He was bitten by a giant snake last night. I guess it was really bad, but they’re pretty sure he’s going to live.”

“That’s terrible! And Ron’s such a nice boy—”

Lavender snorted.

“He is, Lav! He has some growing up to do, but he’s nice enough. How did it happen? Where did the snake come from?”

“Voldemort sent it.”

“Oh, please,” Lavender said even as she jumped in surprise. “Are you still on about that?”

“Yes, Lavender, because it’s _true_ ,” Hermione snapped.

“So _you_ say. I didn’t see anything in the _Prophet_ about it today.”

“That’s because it’s being hushed up by the Ministry. They don’t want to say Voldemort was behind it, do they?”

“That’s convenient, isn’t it? How do we know it even happened, then? Or maybe the “giant snake” was he got it mixed up with a muggle electrical cord.”

“Okay, that’s it!” Hermione snapped. She drew her wand and pointed it at Lavender.

“Whoa! Whoa!” her roommates said.

“Hermione, you can’t—” Parvati started.

“Oh, cool it, Parv. I’m leaving tomorrow. Umbridge can’t expel me now. I don’t know what’s got into you, Lavender, but Ron’s dad could have _died_ last night! All the Weasleys have gone today. You may not want to believe it, but it’s happening—”

Suddenly, she felt a hand on her arm gently pushing her wand down. “Hermione, calm down,” Sally-Anne told her quietly. “She’s not worth it.”

Hermione sighed and nodded to her friend, but she looked back at Lavender sadly. “Lavender, what happened to you?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember what happened in third year?”

“What?” She looked like she’d been completely thrown for a loop.

“You and Parv came running to me screaming that Professor Trelawney had made a prophecy—a prophecy about a dark lord who would be restored to power by his servants and a coming war that would be worse than the last one. I still remember _it_? Don’t you? I didn’t think I believed it myself, but Professor Dumbledore did, and it turned out to be true. Why did you stop believing it?”

“A prophecy?” said Lily Moon. “That’s really serious. Why didn’t you tell me about that?”

“I…I guess I thought you knew,” Parvati said, “but Hermione’s right, Lav. You’ve always respected Professor Trelawney. Why don’t you believe it anymore?”

“I…I…” Hermione and Parvati must have touched on some internal conflict for Lavender because she started to tear up and sniffle. “It just _can_ _’t_ be true, can it? Wouldn’t the Ministry have noticed if _he_ was back? Wouldn’t _everyone_ have noticed?”

“Not if Fudge is doing everything he can _not_ to believe it and covering up all evidence to the contrary,” Hermione said. “And deep down, it wouldn’t surprise me if part of him believes it, too, and that’s why he sounds so desperate. He’s trying to convince himself. I don’t know why Voldemort hasn’t shown himself, but I can guess it’s to his advantage to keep to the shadows now and to play the Ministry and Professor Dumbledore off each other.”

Lavender seemed unable to speak after that, still on the verge of tears, but Lily slowly turned to Hermione and said, “You…you really believe that, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Of course she does!” Sally-Anne snapped. “That’s only what she’s been trying to tell us all year!”

“Sally-Anne—”

“No, Lils, I don’t want to hear it?”

“Sally-Anne, please,” Lily insisted. “I don’t know whether to believe it or not, but prophecies are serious business. And…I can tell you’re scared. If…if there’s anything I can do to help?”

Sally-Anne regarded her ex-girlfriend carefully. “You need to keep more of an open mind, Lils,” she said. “I guess there’s not much we can do with Umbridge around, but I’d at least feel safer if you could…Hermione, what do you think?”

Hermione needed no hint to know what she was thinking. “I don’t know if she’s ready yet…but you can ask Harry next term.”

“What?” Lily said.

“Nothing. We can talk later,” Sally-Anne told her.

The five girls went to bed that night unsettled, but still with a better chance of mending fences than they’d had in months, in Hermione’s estimation, so it was a start.

* * *

With Harry and the Weasleys gone, Hermione didn’t have many people to sit with on the train home. She still had plenty of friends in the castle, but the ones she was closest with were definitely Neville and Luna, so she was glad to find them in a compartment together. She was amused to notice they seemed to scoot closer to each other over the course of the trip.

“So you’ll be learning with a tutor from now on?” Neville said, still surprised at the news that had percolated through the school. “Do you know what he’s like?”

“Apparently, he’s very knowledgeable. And very, er, friendly to students who are especially promising.”

“Oh, then you should have no problem there,” he said, and they all chuckled. “So what are you doing for Christmas?”

“Other than that, I’ll need to visit Harry and George and the others pretty soon, but mostly, I’m looked forward to spending a nice, quiet Christmas with my parents. I haven’t been able to do that since second year. What about you? Nice and quiet?”

“I wish,” Neville said. “Gran invites all the second and third cousins for a big Christmas dinner, and it’s all very formal and tiring, and then we always go visit my parents right after it’s over.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say to that. Neville’s parents were in permanent care in what amounted to the mental ward in St. Mungo’s, and while visiting them was important, she couldn’t imagine going through that after a tiring formal dinner every year.

Luna patted Neville on the arm comfortingly. “It’s just me and Dad for our holidays,” she said. “It’s too bad Yule was last night. I haven’t been able to celebrate it properly since my second year.”

“You celebrate Yule, Luna?” Hermione said. “I mean, the _original_ Yule?”

“Well, the customs have certainly changed over the years, but yes.”

“Huh…I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, but…Actually, Luna, are most wizards religious at all?”

“Of course. Why wouldn’t we be? We’re not that different from muggles.”

“Well, it’s just that I hardly ever hear about it at Hogwarts. We have Christmas and Easter holidays, but there are no Sunday services or anything. And Greengrass and Davis talked about celebrating Yule and Ostara. But then, you know enough about the Last Supper to talk about it comfortably. I just wondered…”

“Oh, my family is syncretic,” she said. “We go to a church in the village sometimes, but we also celebrate the Wheel of the Year. It keeps us closer to nature. It’s too bad most of the festivals happen while I’m at school…I think the largest number of wizards are C of E members, but I don’t think many attend besides muggle-borns.”

“Not many in the muggle world either anymore,” Hermione said. “Are there other religions, then?”

“Certainly. Anthony Goldstein is Jewish. I know Padma’s and Parvati’s grandparents are Hindu. I’m not sure if they are. I don’t think there are any Muslims in Hogwarts now. I’m sure the Shafiq family were Muslims when they first came to Britain, but that was two hundred years ago. And of course, most of the old pureblood families are Druidic pagans—or at least, they claim they are. I can’t imagine Draco Malfoy celebrating the Wheel of the Year.”

Hermione pictured Malfoy dancing around a maypole in the spring and cracked up. When she told the others, the image sustained them all the way back to London. The best part was when Malfoy himself wandered into the compartment looking for Harry, and they started laughing at him on sight. He stormed out muttering about how Potter’s insanity must be catching.

When they arrived, she met her parents at the train station and hugged them just a little longer than she had the last time she saw them.

“It’s good to see you, too, Hermione,” Mum said. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m…tired,” she said. “I’m not sure I even realised how tired until just now. But honestly, I’m feeling a lot better now that I’m free of Umbridge.”

“She sounds pretty awful from your letters,” Dad said. “You haven’t spoken about any of your other teachers like her.”

“She’s not like any teacher I’ve ever had, Dad. You have no idea. She’s a sadistic, power-hungry…” She trailed off and absently rubbed her scarred hand.

“It sounds pretty bad if she was just looking for an excuse to expel you. Could she really have done that?”

“Yes. She could have. The Ministry has so much power, I couldn’t even believe it.”

They started to escort her to the car. “Hermione, we’ve been worried about you,” Mum said. “You haven’t told us much of what’s going on in your letters, and what you did write made you sound more stressed than usual. Are you doing alright?”

Hermione looked over her shoulder to make sure there were no obvious wizards listening in. “I’m not sure I know what alright means anymore with Voldemort back,” she said softly, “but I’m getting by as well as I can. And I think I’ll do better at home. It’s sad to say because I love Hogwarts so much, but…”

“It sounds like you’ve had a really hard time of it,” Mum said. “We’re proud of you for staying strong, but you know we’re always here for you, right?”

She nodded weakly. “I love you so much,” she squeaked, and she hugged them again, trying to fight back tears.

She took a minute to collect herself as they loaded up the car. “So I haven’t had time to tell you,” she said, “Mr. Weasley is in the hospital.”

“Oh no, what’s wrong with him?” asked Mum.

“He was attacked. Voldemort set a giant, poisonous snake on him. It only happened the night before last.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

“I think so, but I guess it was pretty bad. They pulled all the Weasley kids out of school in the middle of the night to see him. I’ll want to visit them tomorrow.”

“Of course. Goodness, I didn’t realise things were getting so dangerous.”

“Well, Mr. Weasley was on some secret mission for Professor Dumbledore—remember his resistance group? But you’re right. It’s getting bad.”

“At least you’ll be home with us for a while,” Dad said. “We’ve missed you, Hermione.”

“Mm hmm. I’ve missed you, too,” she said.


	22. Fifth Year, Spring Term

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: And the Rowling prize goes to Harry Potter…or maybe the other way around.

Hermione took the Knight Bus to Grimmauld Place the next morning. It was Christmas Eve day, so she couldn’t stay too late, but she needed to see her friends as soon as possible. Looking around once, twice for any suspicious characters spying on her, as Moody had warned her, she walked up and knocked on the door, hopefully softly enough not to set off the portrait. Moody preferred to have people set off the portrait of Sirius’s mother so the Order would know they were coming, but he was the only one.

Mrs. Weasley answered the door, looking tired and red-eyed. “Oh, Hermione,” she said, hugging her tight. “We weren’t expecting you today. Thank you so much for coming.” They tiptoed past the portrait and descended to the kitchen. Mrs. Weasley wasn’t cooking at the moment, but she had left a cup of coffee on the table. “Oh, can I get you anything?” she asked.

“No thank, Mrs. Weasley. I just ate. I just wanted to see all of you before Christmas. I heard what happened. How’s Mr. Weasley.”

Mrs. Weasley frowned. “He’s putting on a brave face,” she said. “The Healers say he’s not in immediate danger, but they’re having trouble stopping the bleeding—er, what did you hear, exactly?”

“Professor Dumbledore told me he was on assignment for the Order, and he was attacked by a snake Voldemort sent after him.”

Mrs. Weasley flinched. “Did he, now?” she looked faintly surprised. “Well, yes, that’s what happened. The venom didn’t do too much damage, they said, but they think the wound might be cursed. They’re hoping he’ll be able to come home for New Year’s.”

“Well, I hope he can, too. I meant to talk to Harry before the term ended, too. Where is he?”

“Harry’s probably in his room. I do hope you can get through to him. He’s been sulking all this time.”

“Sounds like Harry,” Hermione groaned. “I’ll do my best.” She started to climb up the stairs to Harry’s and Ron’s room, but she got waylaid at the first floor drawing room by a certain pair of redheaded twins.

“Hermione!” George bounded out to meet her and grabbed her around the middle. He looked as tired as his mother to her eyes, but his eyes sparkled when he saw her, and he kissed her deeply.

Hermione heard a cough, and they looked up. The cough was followed by a giggle, and she saw Ginny smiling at them. Ron was there, too, but he just rolled his eyes. Hermione blushed and gently pulled away from George.

“Didn’t think you were coming for a while,” he said. “I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. It all happened so fast.”

“It’s fine, George. You did what you needed to. I’m sorry I can’t be here for you more, but I can’t get out a whole lot, either. What happened exactly? I know Harry had a vision of your father being attacked by Voldemort’s snake…”

George flinched, much more than usual. “It was bad,” he said. “Ron woke up, heard Harry screaming. I guess Neville went to get McGonagall. The first thing _we_ knew was McGonagall waking us up saying Dad had been hurt, and we needed to go _now_. Didn’t even really know what happened. Dumbledore made a Portkey to send us here right quick. Harry said we had to get out before Umbridge found out. She probably could’ve stopped us leaving till the train came, and she was looking for dirt on Dumbledore, you know?”

“Not that it mattered,” Fred grumbled. “Sirius and Remus wouldn’t let us leave “cause it would’ve blown Dad’s cover or something.”

“We finally got to see him in the afternoon the next day,” Ginny explained. “We’re going back again tomorrow.”

“How is he?”

“Oh, you know Dad. He’s in great spirits,” George said. “Says he’s feeling fine, except they can’t take off the bandages yet.”

“Moody and Tonks were all over him, though,” Ron spoke up. “We reckon they wanted to know about what he was guarding.”

“So he was definitely guarding something, then?” Hermione said.

“Yeah, he let that slip. And in Harry’s vision, he said Dad was right outside the Department of Mysteries. It’s gotta be that weapon they were talking about before. The one You-Know-Who wants. Hey, did you ever find out anything about that?”

She shook her head: “No, I researched magic weapons as far as I could, but the historical records are questionable. The list of artifacts that are well-documented to have useful powers _and_ could plausibly be in the Department of Mysteries is pretty short. My top guesses are either Salazar Slytherin’s locket or one of the Deathly Hallows.”

“The Deathly Hallows?” Ron said. “From _The Tale of the Three Brothers?_ You know those are just kid’s stories, right, Hermione?”

“That’s what I thought, but Luna thinks they’re real—and I know that may not mean much on its own, but there are enough historical references to the Elder Wand to make it look like there might be something to it. Emeric the Evil, Egbert the Egregious, Godelot, Hereward, Barnabas Deverill, and Loxias all held a wand that fit the description.”

The Weasleys all looked surprised. “I never knew that,” Ginny said.

“Blimey,” Ron said, “if there _is_ an unbeatable wand out there, You-Know-Who would _definitely_ want it.”

“I know, but it’s just a guess. And you’d have to explain how the Department of Mysteries got hold of it. It could be Slytherin’s locket or something else on my list, or it could be something they’ve invented there. Who knows if Voldemort knows something we don’t?”

“It’s a good start, though,” George said. “It’s good we know what we could be up against.”

“Not sure how you’d beat an unbeatable wand, though,” Fred said.

“Steal it seems to be the usual way in the stories,” Hermione replied, “but you’re right. It’d be a tough problem. Anyway, where’s Harry? How’s he holding up?”

Ginny grimaced: “I don’t know. He’s been weird since it happened.”

“Weird how?”

“I don’t know. Distant. Wants to be by himself. It’s almost like he’s blaming himself for what happened. I know that look on him. But I don’t get it. I mean, he saved Dad’s life.”

 _Using the visions that he_ _’s supposed to be blocking,_ Hermione thought. She had an inkling of what Harry was unhappy about. And of course, the Weasleys wouldn’t really understand. They hadn’t been teaching him like she had. “I’ll go talk to him,” she said. “Is he in his room?”

“Yeah, should be. I hope you can get more out of him than I can.”

She nodded and proceeded up the stairs to Harry’s room. She knocked on the door and, not hearing a response, opened it to see Harry lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling.

“Hey, Harry,” she said.

Harry looked over in surprise. “Hermione? What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see my friends.”

“Oh…Sorry. I guess I didn’t get a chance to see you—”

“It’s fine. I know what happened—basically, anyway.”

“Oh. Right.” He fell silent for a minute.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“Not really.”

Well, that figured. Still, she didn’t give up. She sat down on Ron’s bed and told Harry what he’d missed after he left Hogwarts. She briefly described her conversations with Neville and Professor Dumbledore and how she thought she might have an in to bring Lavender around. Harry was very surprised when she told him Greengrass and Davis might be interested in the D.A.

“Why would they want to do that?” he asked.

“Apparently, Davis has been worried she’ll fail her O.W.L. all year. And I thought since Georgina got along well enough, we should be on the lookout for other Slytherins.”

“It’s really not the same, though,” Harry objected. “They’re in our year. People might not go for it. They really _could_ use the spells we teach them against us.”

“Yes, they could, in theory, but they’re not Malfoy’s hangers-on like Parkinson and Bulstrode, and if we don’t _want_ them to be, isn’t it better if we provide an alternative?”

“I guess. I’ll try it if they ask, but no promises. So are you gonna give me the contract, then?”

“Hm, that’s a good point.” It would be safer not to. Hermione had already considered that she might try to sneak back into the school for the D.A. meetings. She could pull it off easily, but she had no idea how long it would take her to get in and out from home, and that was only if her parents let her. “I’ll have to think about it,” she said. “I’ll either give it to you, or I’ll find a way to get it to you to sign up new members.”

“Fine.”

“So I thought of a new prank idea to give the Twins,” she said on impulse.

“Yeah? What is it?”

“They need to find some way to prank Malfoy into dancing around a maypole on Beltane.”

“Beltane?”

“The pagan May Day festival. Luna says the Malfoys claim to be Druidic pagans. I say we make him prove it.”

Harry pictured the idea and immediately laughed, though not as hard as Luna and Neville had. He at least seemed more relaxed, though he still didn’t volunteer any more information.

“Well, Happy Christmas, Harry,” she said. “Try not to neglect your girlfriend too much. Ginny deserves your proper attention, plus you know how she gets when she’s angry.” She stood up.

“Hermione,” he stopped her.

“Yes, Harry?”

“I didn’t want to tell her…I didn’t tell anyone except Ron and Dumbledore. When I had that vision of Mr. Weasley…I was the snake.”

 _What?_ Hermione sat back down. “You were the snake?” she said.

“I mean, I guess I wasn’t literally the snake. Ron said I was in my bed the whole time. But I saw it through the snake’s eyes.”

“That’s…strange. So you could see it from down on the floor?”

“ _Yes_. I saw my reflection in the wall, and it was a snake. And…” He sat up and drew his knees up to his chest. “I could _feel_ myself slithering on my stomach,” he said shakily. “I could _taste_ Mr. Weasley’s scent in the air. I could…I could feel myself sinking my fangs—”

“Harry!” Hermione rushed to his side and shook him. “Harry, snap out of it! You didn’t do any of that. It was Voldemort. I had no idea—I’m so sorry you had to go through that. I can’t imagine how awful that was.”

He shook his head violently, then relaxed. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I’ve been trying not to think about it.”

“I don’t blame you. It’s probably better if you try to forget about it. So is Voldemort an animagus, then?”

“No, I don’t think so. Dumbledore said he must have been possessing the snake.”

“So you saw what the snake was seeing?”

“I guess. Dumbledore didn’t really explain it. It didn’t even know he _could_ do that now he has a body again.”

“Huh. Well, at least you know what you’re up against, right. And if you can get your Occlumency up to snuff, you won’t ever have to go through that again.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…what if I’m doing the wrong thing, learning Occlumency?”

“Harry, how can you say that—?”

“Because Mr. Weasley would’ve died if I hadn’t seen it happen!” he shouted. “It was lucky I _hadn_ _’t_ got further with my Occlumency, or we never would’ve known.”

And that was what Hermione had been afraid of. “Harry, just because it turned out well this time—” she started.

“It wasn’t just this time, Hermione. I can find out what Voldemort’s up to. The last time it happened, I saw how he was trying to get into the Department of Mysteries, and now we know it was true. What if I miss something important? What if I could save someone else by using my visions?”

“Harry, look at me,” she said sternly. He did, and she threw up her own Occlumency and deliberately looked him in the eye for the first time in weeks. “Don’t you remember what we talked about before? Occlumency is about more than just blocking out those visions. I have secrets I need to keep, and so does Dumbledore. We need to be confident that Voldemort can’t read our minds through you. I’m hoping that the meditation I’ve been teaching you is good enough for me to use, too. You said it seemed to be working against Snape, so that’s a good sign. But _you_ need to be competent at Occlumency to be sure of it.”

“Fine, so I’ll keep it up around you, then. I can still use the visions.”

She sighed loudly. “Harry, it’s not that simple. How do you know Voldemort can’t read your mind and find out your secrets during a vision, huh?” Harry frowned uncomfortably. “Or…or what if he starts sending you fake visions? What if he could trick you into messing up that way?”

“Can he do that?”

“I don’t know,” she lied, “but Dumbledore seems to be worried about how powerful a Legilimens he is. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s possible. We got lucky this time, yes, but I don’t think we can trust that luck next time. It could backfire and get someone killed instead of saving them.”

Harry really did look worried at that. “So what do I do, then?”

“ _Keep learning Occlumency_. Maybe it’s taking a chance, but you’re taking a bigger chance by letting Voldemort inside your head.”

He bowed his head and groaned. “Alright, alright, I’ll keep up with the Occlumency. It’d be nice if I could get a better teacher than Snape, though.”

“Yes, but he’s all we’ve got. You said you were making progress, so at least he’s not bad enough to derail you completely.”

“I guess…I wish I knew what he was putting in that Pensieve, though. It could prove whether he’s really on our side or not.”

“Professor Dumbledore trusts him, though,” Hermione said, confused by the _non sequitur_.

“Yeah, Dumbledore trusts him,” he grumbled. “More than me, apparently.”

“Harry, he…Look, I know Dumbledore isn’t infallible, _believe_ me, but it’s not that he doesn’t trust you. He just needs you to train up enough so you’re ready to fend off Voldemort’s Legilimency. And besides, we don’t know if the memories Snape’s hiding are about Voldemort at all. Maybe they’re embarrassing childhood memories, and he doesn’t want to damage his reputation.”

“Embarrassing childhood memories?” he said sceptically.

“Why not. He can’t have been born a misanthropic git.”

“I wouldn’t put it past him.”

“Well, maybe you can ask Sirius and Remus about it. I think they were in the same class.”

“Huh…Yeah, I guess they were. Eh, might as well. Er…and thanks, Hermione.”

“No problem, Harry. Smacking some sense into you seems to be a full-time job.”

“Oi!”

They descended the stairs to rejoin the Weasleys, but Hermione was soon found by Remus and pulled aside again. “Oh, Hermione, good. There you are,” he said. “Horace Slughorn is down in the dining room. He said he’d like to talk to you.”

“He’s here already?” She hadn’t though he wanted to spend that much time around the Order. “Alright, then.” She continued down to the dining room and saw two people sitting at the table: one a slightly-exasperated Sirius and the other a much older man who was snacking on a Christmas box of candied fruit. She knocked on the door frame. “Excuse me. Professor Slughorn…?” The two men looked up. “I’m Hermione Granger.”

The older man stood up with a grin and threw his arms wide. “Oho! Of course you are, Miss Granger,” he said in a deep, jovial voice. “I recognise you from the _Prophet_ this past summer. Horace Slughorn. Delighted to meet you.” He shook her hand far more enthusiastically than his age would suggest.

Horace Slughorn was short and very fat, so much so that Hermione had to wonder what the contingency was if her tutor dropped dead from a heart attack mid-term. He was no spring chicken, either; he looked about seventy by muggle standards, which probably put him near ninety for a wizard. He was probably the most Victorian wizard Hermione had ever seen, and that was saying something. He wore a velvet three-piece suit with a Double Albert watch chain, and his face sported a thick, white walrus moustache and actual, real-live mutton chops. Despite being on the run, he was clearly a man who was accustomed to luxury.

“Pleased to meet you, too, Professor,” Hermione replied. “Thank you so much for accepting me as a student.”

“Well, how could I resist such a brilliant young woman? I’ve read all of your papers, Miss Granger. A bit over my head with the last couple, but really inspired. And not to mention you’re a friend of Harry Potter. I know he’s under a cloud right now, but he’ll be proved right soon enough.” He shuddered a little bit at this. “I’ll be honest. I didn’t think I wanted anything to do with Dumbledore’s Order of the Phoenix. I’m sure they’re very admirable and brave and all the rest of it, but I don’t fancy the mortality rate. But you know, Mr. Black, here, has a very nice place, and it’s under Fidelius, so I thought maybe it’s not such a bad idea after all.”

Well, that was basically what Professor Dumbledore had told her. Professor Slughorn didn’t seem to be a very complicated person, but if he was as good a teacher as his reputation suggested, she wasn’t objecting.

“—just got here this morning. Thought I’d be on my own for Christmas before I got the offer, so it worked out for all of us, didn’t it?”

“Er, yes, I suppose it did, Professor.”

“Well, come on. Sit down, and we’ll talk. You’ll want to start your studies again soon, I’m thinking.”

Hermione hadn’t really thought about doing it before the holidays ended, so she wasn’t really prepared. “Um, fairly soon, but I really think my parents should be part of this conversation, sir.”

“Oh, right, right. Well, since I actually have a safe place to stay, I can keep up with at least some of my social life,” he said. “Is there a time they’d be able to meet with us?”

She thought about it for a minute, and she thought of one possibility that she hoped would work for everyone. And it would be interesting to see how Professor Slughorn would react. “I’d have to check with my parents, but we might be able to have you over for dinner sometime this week.”

Slughorn looked surprised by the offer, but he considered it thoughtfully. “For dinner? How interesting. That would be a new experience, wouldn’t it? But I’d be worried about transport, though. I haven’t been there to Apparate, I’m rubbish on a broom at my age, and I can’t trust people not to talk on the Knight Bus.”

“Perhaps a muggle taxi?” Hermione offered innocently.

His eyes widened with fear at the very thought. Hermione mentally placed him in the category of too many admittedly decent wizards she knew: those who didn’t hold anything against muggles, but had absolutely no practical experience with them and didn’t particularly care to. “It’s really not that difficult, Professor,” she said. “If you take the train from King’s Cross to Crawley, then hail a cab, it should only cost about a galleon, equivalent. I’ll speak with my parents and see if we can sort out the arrangements.”

“Ah, well, that’s different. That’s very kind of you, Miss Granger. I’d be delighted to join you if you can work it out. Just…knock it off my fee, I think. That’s probably easiest.”

“Of course, Professor.”

“I’m glad I caught you here today. Best to meet on good terms, isn’t it? It’s terrible what they’ve done to you in the press, trying to discredit you from receiving the Gamp and the Wenlock. I understand enough of your papers to know who _really_ did the hard work on those! You know, I know some people on the boards of those prizes. I think I’ll write them and put in a good word for you. With my recommendation, I’m sure they’ll come around.”

Hermione turned pink. She wasn’t sure if that would really work, but it was a bit late regardless. “That’s very kind of you, Professor, but the thing is, I’ve already written them to take my name out of the running.”

Slughorn’s eyes bugged out in horror, as if no one had ever suggested something so outrageous to him before. “Why on earth would you do that, Miss Granger?” he gasped.

“Because I thought that if those boards would listen to the Ministry’s propaganda and cave to their wishes, it wasn’t likely that any letters of recommendation would dissuade them. Not if Umbridge’s actions at Hogwarts were any indication. I’m sorry I didn’t think of you, but honestly, I’d prefer it if you didn’t get on her bad side, too.”

“Dolores Umbridge,” he grumbled. “I never did like her. She never liked me either after I picked Septima Vector for prefect over her, come to think of it. I never thought she’d get that much power. But you didn’t have to do that. I still think it might have been possible to sway them with the right pressure.”

Hermione shook her head. “Has Harry mentioned his Quidditch experience to you, Professor? Oh, I’ll bet he didn’t even get his broom back, having to leave early. Anyway, if Umbridge wanted me not to receive the awards, she would have made it happen. Maybe she would’ve got a law passed that says you can’t accept any professional prizes unless you’re of age or something. And anyway, I don’t need a prize to prove my skills. I can make my own name for myself once all this is over.”

“Ah, confidence,” he said with a wistful smile. “That’s a very good trait to have. And you know what? I think you’ll live up to it. I’ve always had an eye, you know, for the most promising students…and I was always happy to give them a nudge in the right direction. Take Dirk Cresswell, for example. I put in a good word for him, and now he’s the head of the Goblin Liaison Office.”

“Um, that’s really good,” Hermione said half-heartedly. She wasn’t entirely sure why Slughorn was bragging, except perhaps to suggest he could provide the same service for her, which she didn’t particularly need. Whatever it was, though, his larger-than-life persona certainly defied the “subtle Slytherin” stereotype. She wondered if that meant anything.

“And there was Barnabus Cuffe, editor of the _Daily Prophet_ ; Ambrosius Flume, the owner of Honeydukes; and Gwenog Jones, captain of the Holyhead Harpies—”

“Wait, you know the owner of Honeydukes?” Hermione interrupted.

“Yes.”

She thought for a moment. “Do you know how he feels about the Ministry…and what time his shop closes?”

* * *

Sirius must have sneaked away at some point in the conversation, for Hermione found him and Remus conversing with Harry in the kitchen. “Probably some of it’s about the war,” she heard Sirius say, apparently discussing Snape’s memories. “He’s a spy, after all. But yeah, it could be embarrassing memories, too.”

“Like what?”

“Well, you know your father and I weren’t very nice to him while we were at Hogwarts. There was the time I goaded him into trying to get into the Shrieking Shack.”

“What?” Hermione gasped. “How could you do that?”

They all looked up at her. “Yes, yes, I was a total arse,” Sirius said. “I already got chewed out for it by Dumbledore and McGonagall and Madam Pomfrey, _and_ James and Remus, so I don’t need to hear it again.”

“That was the time I nearly threw him out a window,” Remus said. “I think I mentioned it briefly.”

“Yeah. The point is, James saved Snivellus that night, and I don’t think he ever got over it.”

Hermione looked at Harry, who appeared very uneasy. Mrs. Weasley was there, too, but she apparently either had heard the story before or was too distraught over her husband because she only shot Sirius a disdainful look. “I guess that’s something he wouldn’t want me to see,” Harry admitted. “Was it just the one time, or were there others?”

“Let’s see…there _was_ the time we stripped him naked in public.”

“You did _what?_!”

“To be fair, Snape had just called your mother a mudblood. James was pretty mad about that.”

“He did?”

“He did,” Remus confirmed. “It was the last time Snape and Lily spoke in public. They’d been good friends at the start, but Snape got too deep in with the Slytherins, and it was too much for Lily.”

“House divisions again?” Hermione said.

“I suppose so. It was hard to be a Slytherin in those days who _wasn_ _’t_ in the Death Eaters’ orbit. We could tell even from a distance.”

“But still, stripping him naked?” Harry said in horror.

“Well, James was a bit of an idiot when he was fifteen,” Sirius said.

“ _I_ _’m_ fifteen!” he protested.

“And we’re happy that you’ve inherited some of your mother’s good sense. But can you honestly say you wouldn’t do the same to the Malfoy boy if you got the chance?”

“I wouldn’t want to _see_ that!” Harry protested.

Hermione silently agreed. The thought of seeing either Snape _or_ Malfoy naked made her want to vomit a bit.

“Look, Harry,” Remus said, “the point is that Snape and your dad couldn’t stand each other all the way through school. They were both hexing each other long after James stopped being an arrogant berk in general. The feeling was mutual, too, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d want to keep his memories of the worst of it hidden.”

Harry didn’t respond, but he looked uncomfortable. Hermione could sympathise. It had to be hard to learn that his father was an “arrogant berk” and even, if she were honest about it, a bit of a bully, after all the bullying he’d endured himself.

“Just remember, Pup,” Sirius said, “Snivellus may be a greasy-haired git, but Dumbledore trusts him, and he won’t like it if you go snooping on him. And just remember, if you somehow get the opportunity to look inside that Pensieve, there might be a memory of a naked Snape in there.”

Harry shuddered, and Hermione could guess he had resolved _not_ to play that game of Russian roulette.

* * *

Hermione felt a little bad about not being able to see Mr. Weasley on Christmas with the others, but at least she was able to finally spend a pleasant holiday with her parents. In another year, they might have gone skiing or something, even though that really wasn’t her thing, but with their constantly shifting plans for moving and then not moving, they hadn’t been able to schedule anything.

She bicycled to the train station on Boxing Day and purchased a ticket for Professor Slughorn to come to them, and she sent it to him through Dobby (that Hermione had an elf on call apparently surprised him greatly) along with a taxi fare. They briefly debated simply picking him up at the station, but Hermione thought taking a taxi would be a good learning experience for him.

It was also on Boxing Day that her mum noticed the scarring on her hand. Hermione hadn’t made an effort to cover it up, which would have been more suspicious, but she had rather been hoping her parents wouldn’t notice for a while. The thin, white lines on the back of her hand weren’t very prominent, but they were apparently readable across the kitchen table if she held her hand still.

“Hermione…what happened to your hand?” Mum said.

Hermione just winced in reply.

“Something wrong, Emma?” Dad said.

“There are scars on her hand, Dan. I’m sure they weren’t there before.”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t notice,” Hermione muttered.

“Sweetie, we both went to dental school. We know scarring when we see it. Let me see, please.” Hermione quickly decided not to resist as her mum took her hand and turned it to read the words. Emma gasped when she saw them. “‘ _I must not tell lies_ _’_?” she gasped. “Hermione, did you do this to yourself?”

“I—not by choice!” she said quickly, realising what she must be worried about, though the truth wasn’t any better.

Mum and Dad looked confused. “What do you mean, not by choice—” Mum started, but then, her eyes widened. “You mean your detentions? They did that— _made you_ do that—?”

Hermione jerked her hand back quickly, but she couldn’t bring herself to speak. Tears started to well in her eyes. She’d never wanted to subject her parents to this.

“Hermione…?” Dad said in horror. “Your letters said that Umbridge woman was using corporal punishment. Making you cut yourself with a knife—”

“It wasn’t a knife,” she said.

“Huh?”

She reluctantly explained about the black quill Umbridge had invented, how it would cut her hand and heal it, growing less and less effective with each repetition. Both her parents were in tears when she done telling them.

“Why did you go along with that?” Mum cried. “How could you let her do that to you? And why didn’t Dobby tell us?”

“It wouldn’t have done any good for Dobby to tell you. I didn’t have a choice,” Hermione muttered tearfully.

“Of course you did! You should have refused!” Mum shouted.

“You could have appealed,” Dad said.

“There was no one to appeal to,” Hermione protested. “They passed a decree giving Umbridge supreme authority over punishments.”

“Then you should have contacted the police—the Aurors, right?”

“Fudge wouldn’t have let them do anything. And the rules are outdated and riddled with loopholes. They couldn’t have stopped her.”

“Then just refuse!” Mum repeated.

“She would have expelled me.”

“Hermione, I can’t believe we’re saying this, but school’s not worth that—”

“She threatened _you!_ _”_ Hermione yelled. Her parents reeled back in stunned silence. Her voice choked. She hadn’t meant to say that. But she wiped away a few tears before she managed to continue: “I would have refused. Really, I would have. But Umbridge said if I was expelled without having tutor, I’d be truant, and if I was truant, they could have charged _you_ with contributing to the delinquency of a minor…they could have sent _you_ to Azkaban…” She held up her fist. “I’ll endure this much and more to make sure you two never have to come in contact with a dementor,” she said fiercely.

“Hermione—” Dad said.

“ _No_ , Dad. Don’t try to argue with me on this one. You don’t know what they’re like. They suck all the happiness out of you just by being near you. You feel like nothing will ever be alright again, and muggles can’t even _see_ them. Those demons are a worse torture than anything Dolores Umbridge could dream up, and I will _never_ let you—” Her voice broke again.

Mum stood up and wrapped her in a tight hug, and Dad gently laid a hand on each of their shoulders. “Oh, Hermione,” Mum cried. “We’re supposed to protect you from things like this. You’re not supposed to have to try to protect us.”

“And Harry shouldn’t have had to fight Voldemort three times before his fifteenth birthday, but they couldn’t protect him from that, either,” she retorted sadly. “Mum, Dad, I know you want to protect me, but you’ve already done the most important thing you can: arranging for alternative education for me. Thanks to you, I’ll never have to use that quill again.”

“It should never have happened,” Mum whispered.

“No, it shouldn’t, but the Ministry was more powerful than both of us. It’s over now. She can’t touch me anymore.”

Mum half nodded and looked at Hermione’s hand again. “You said you had detention for a whole week. How many lines was this?”

Hermione looked down at the floor uncomfortably.

“Don’t tell me it was so many you lost count,” Mum said.

She looked up again. Mum knew that would get to her. “Mum, you know I _never_ lose count. Ever.” She hesitated: “…It was four thousand, one hundred, and ninety-three.”

Her parents gasped in horror again. “Four—four _thousand?_!” Dad roared. “But how? That must have taken…”

“Twenty-four and a half hours spread over five days.”

“That’s insane!”

“That’s torture!”

“That’s not discipline!”

“How did you get your work done?”

“Cutting back on sleep…a lot,” she answered. “Look, now you know how bad Umbridge really is. And I didn’t even get the worst of it from her. Harry must have got five or six thousand lines from the amount of time she kept him, plus a lifetime Quidditch ban for his trouble.”

Dad had started to calm down, somewhat, but he gave her a stern look: “Hermione, are you _sure_ you want to stay in Britain. The kinds of things the Ministry of Magic is doing—those kinds of things normally happen in places like banana republics or the former Soviet Union. I’m not sure it’s safe here.”

“Dad, Voldemort’s back. We already know it’s not safe. But Professor Dumbledore says it’s safe enough, and there’s not nearly as much that they can do to me out here where they have to follow actual _laws_. I’m not going to abandon my friends if I can help it.”

He sighed. “I suppose it’s our own fault for raising such a strong-willed and brilliant daughter,” he said with a slight smile. “But we’ll be keeping an even closer eye on things as long as you’re here with us.”

“I know you will. Thanks, Dad.”

* * *

Professor Slughorn joined the Grangers for dinner on Thursday. Naturally, he was amazed by Dobby answering the door in his little butler’s uniform, as well as their use of their muggle appliances. He had apparently been hiding out in the muggle world, but Hermione could guess that he had never actually broken bread with muggles in their own home. Nonetheless, he was courteous and eager to meet the parents of such a promising student.

They exchanged small talk for a while, discussing how Hermione had developed her amazing numeracy skills, Slughorn’s accomplishments as a potions master, all the things he had seen at Hogwarts, Dan’s and Emma’s professional career as dentists, and so on. For some reason, Slughorn was under the impression that dentistry was a dangerous profession, but they assured him that despite the urban legend of a high suicide rate, the greatest danger was bites from distraught children.

As dessert was winding down, they came back to the subject of Hermione’s tutoring. “Thank you again for agreeing to teach Hermione,” Emma told him. “We’ve been really worried about her, especially after she told us everything that Umbridge woman was doing at Hogwarts. We’re glad she got out of there.”

“Well, I thought I was done with teaching, but for a girl like Hermione, I can make an exception,” he said. “Ha, just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in,” he muttered to himself, causing the Grangers to snicker, to his confusion. “Anyway, I take it you want to keep preparing for your O.W.L.s, Miss Granger? That’ll be the core classes, plus which electives were you taking?”

“Ancient Runes and Magical Creatures,” she answered. “I’m keeping my Arithmancy mastery with Septima, and I’ve signed up for Muggle Studies, but I’m doing self-study.”

“Alright…Phew, it’s been a while since I taught nine classes at once. Of course, I’m sure you’re a fast learner, but I have rather limited movement at the moment, and I won’t be able to make as much ‘classroom time’ as you’re used to.”

Hermione glanced at her parents, hoping they wouldn’t mind, and made a couple suggestions: “I think I can self-study History, Professor. Professor Binns is still at Hogwarts, and he’s never been any help over just reading the textbook. And probably Astronomy too, for the most part. We own a better telescope here than the ones we use at school and a lot of muggle books the cover the same material. Maybe you could just look over my work?”

“Yes, yes, that could work,” he agreed. “That will save some time. Especially for Astronomy. I don’t want to travel at night. The trouble spots will be Herbology and Magical Creatures. I’ll only be able to cover the theory. I won’t be able to do many practical lessons under these conditions.”

“Hermione, are you okay with that?” Dan asked.

“I don’t know…I wasn’t really planning on doing a N.E.W.T. for Magical Creatures, but Herbology is needed for a lot of careers.”

“Not that many that also need Arithmancy,” Slughorn reminded her. “And if it’s that important to you, I’m sure you can pick up the practical elements later on.”

“Well, that’s true. I haven’t exactly been following a standard education plan to start with. I guess I can live with that.”

“Are you sure you can keep your grades up like that?” Emma asked.

“I might not be able to test Outstandings in those classes, but I’m sure I’ll pass.”

“Okay, if you think so. We’ll be expecting it, you know.”

“Good,” Slughorn said. “Now, for places and times. Normally, I would just visit and teach in the student’s home for a few hours each day, but I can’t do that in a muggle house. Failing that, we’d arrange a time and place to hold lessons in a magical area. The trouble with that is, I’d like to keep my head down, I believe I told you. Being seen often in public, especially with an established pattern of movements…well, I’d prefer not to be so conspicuous.”

“We don’t want you two meeting in back alleys,” Dan said.

“Oh, no, no,” Slughorn said. He looked horrified at the thought, probably because of the low quality of said facilities. “I have places we could go: the Leaky Cauldron, a couple other shops, the theatre, perhaps, although the Potions part might be difficult. But, no, I was thinking of the—the—oh, _Fidelius_ ,” he muttered. “Our Headquarters is growing on me, you see. I’d told myself I didn’t want to get involved, but there’s a lot to be said for having a safe place to stay a while. And I thought it would be much easier if we could hold the lessons there.”

“That would be a lot of coming and going for a place that’s under _Fidelius_ ,” Hermione observed. “Will that be a problem?”

“Quite a few people come and go from there already. Arthur still works, or will, when he’s recovered.”

“But there is the problem of Hermione commuting to and from London every day,” Emma said.

“That’s true,” Hermione agreed. “Whether I take the Knight Bus or the train, it’ll start to get pretty steep to go every day.”

“Hmm…” Slughorn mused. “Perhaps you could stay there during the week and come home on the weekends?”

Dan and Emma looked at each other and immediately knew what the other was thinking. “I’m not sure we’re comfortable with you spending so much time in a place that we can’t see or even know about, Hermione,” Dan said.

Hermione thought it might also cause some interference with her plans to sneak into Hogwarts for the D.A., especially with Mrs. Weasley around. Even her weekly meetings with Septima and Dumbledore might be harder that way. “Yes, I was hoping to spend more time at home this spring, Professor,” she agreed.

“Well, I suppose we could do it in fewer days,” said Slughorn, “but we’d still have the same problem.”

Hermione quickly did the maths. “I think I have an idea,” she said. “What if we make them even longer days and only meet two days a week?”

“Only two?” Dan said in surprise. “Will you have time for that many classes that way?”

“It can work. Most Hogwarts classes normally meet only three hours a week.” That had always seemed a bit thin to Hermione. Muggle classes met four to five hours per week, but then, muggle students usually took fewer classes. “And we don’t need to meet for all of them. Figure seven classes, but only half time for Herbology and Magical Creatures since we’re only doing theory. Add lunch, and that’s two ten-hour-days, but since I can work at my own pace, I’ll probably be able to go faster. Transfiguration, Charms, and Defence come down a lot to how fast you can get the spells down, so it wouldn’t surprise me if I only need eight or nine hours for two days. That way, Professor, you wouldn’t be under as much pressure to find meeting places, or maybe we could even do—er, Headquarters.”

Slughorn’s eyebrows rose. He knew Hermione was an Arithmancy prodigy, and her train of logic made sense, but he hadn’t thought she could simplify things that much. “Yes…yes…excellent idea, Miss Granger. That would work out very well, if you’re up to it.”

“ _Are_ you up to it, Hermione?” asked Emma. “It sounds like it’s still going to be a lot of work, and busy days those two days. We want to make sure you’re not overworking yourself.”

“No more than I would be at school, Mum. Or not much more. There’s still travel time to account for. We’re just rearranging the schedule at bit.”

“Well, then, if you think that’s enough instruction time, Professor, we can agree to that.”

“With a girl like Hermione, I’m sure she’ll do fine,” Slughorn said. “Now, I’ll need some time to get ready so let’s make it…Wednesday and Thursday of the first week of the term for our first session. Make it an overnight visit, if that’s alright. We’ll decide after that if it would be better to split the days up.”

“Alright, Professor, that sounds like a plan,” Dan agreed.

* * *

Saturday was the presentation of the Gamp and Wenlock prizes. Hermione and her parents attended to watch, even though Hermione was no longer in the running. It was announced at the last minute that both prizes would be awarded in a joint ceremony to the brilliant transfiguration prodigy, Rebecca Gamp, and her arithmancy mentor, Septima Vector. Umbridge hadn’t found an excuse to bar Septima from it, or perhaps hadn’t thought it important enough after Hermione dropped out. Nonetheless, Hermione quietly pulled Septima aside and asked her not to mention her name in connection with the project. Umbridge already didn’t like Septima, and Hermione didn’t want to jeopardise Septima’s place at Hogwarts. She reluctantly agreed.

Since this was an international award ceremony, it was held at the Diagonal Theatre, one of the few venues in magical Britain that could accommodate this many wizards. They had come from all over the world. There were descendants of Siegfried Eigen from Germany, Americans, Russians, Chinese, Japanese wizards, and more. Thankfully, Umbridge was not in attendance—probably didn’t care. That was fine by Hermione. She didn’t want to let her parents in the same room with that woman if she could help it.

The ceremony was uneventful and fairly interesting. The heads of the boards of _Annals of Arithmancy_ and _Transfiguration Today_ spoke about the history of the prizes and their publications and how important this discovery was and how amazing the work was that went into it. Several prominent arithmancers and transfiguration masters from around the world weighed in as well. They mentioned Hermione’s name, but none of them singled her out for her contribution beyond vaguely emphasising the importance of her arithmancy work. She suspected they’d been informed of the political situation coming in. She noted that the American arithmancer who spoke seemed to know enough that he might be helpful with her antimatter proof.

Finally, Septima and Rebecca were called up to receive their prizes, and Hermione smiled and applauded with the rest of the audience. She noted, however, that her parents didn’t smile and only applauded halfheartedly.

Both Septima and Rebecca were asked to give speeches, but Septima kept hers short, probably because she felt she wouldn’t be able to restrain herself from running her mouth off about Hermione otherwise. “Thank you, thank you, Madam Sisenna, Mr. Tinworth. And thank you to the boards,” she said, though her thanks sounded a little forced. “Obviously, it’s a great honour to receive these awards. I’ve taught a lot of students in my days at Hogwarts, but I honestly never thought I’d make it to this stage as a teacher. Now, I could bore you all with a long speech, but the truth is, this work would never have happened without the brilliant contributions of my students. They’re the ones who really did most of the legwork on this, and I am so happy to have had them in my classroom. So, I’ll go ahead and hand it straight over to Rebecca, since this is really her moment.”

She stepped down and shot Hermione an unhappy look. Hermione hadn’t missed the double meaning in Septima’s words, but she still smiled and applauded again when Rebecca took the podium, even when the older girl looked right at her. She’d made her peace with the situation.

Rebecca looked a bit overwhelmed when she gazed out at the audience. “Thank you, Madam Sisenna,” she began with a slight quaver. “And thank you, Mr. Tinworth…and the boards. It is truly an honour to be standing here before you today. As you can probably gather from my surname, I grew up hearing about the great achievements of my family in magical research, especially transfiguration, stretching back centuries. It’s been my dream to follow in their footsteps and to be able to make my own contribution to the sum of magical knowledge. I certainly never expected to make it here so early in my career, so this is…really amazing.

“When I was first approached with the problem of the sixth exception to Gamp’s Law…” She paused for a moment and looked at Hermione. Of course, Hermione was the one who had approached her, and most of the audience could guess it by now, but she didn’t say it. “Of course I jumped at the chance. I was a little bit sceptical at first. Radioactivity was an esoteric concept, and the entire plan for the project involved a lot of geomancy and…and advanced arithmancy that I wasn’t familiar with.” She stopped and looked at Hermione again, but Hermione maintained a pleasant look on her face (though her parents didn’t). “I had to catch up on a lot of it. We had to design entirely new types of transfiguration experiments to get the information we needed to put the proof together. The arithmancy…it was stretching the cutting edge of linear algebra techniques to finish it…and…and the truth is…”

Rebecca looked down at Hermione again, looking distinctly uncomfortable. She was silent for longer this time, long enough for a cough in the audience to draw attention to it. Suddenly, Rebecca’s face hardened, and she said quickly, “The truth is that Hermione Granger deserves these awards a hell of a lot more than I do!”

Gasps filled the theatre. Hermione’s jaw dropped. Was this the same Rebecca Gamp she knew?

“The whole thing was her idea!” Rebecca said. “She knew enough about radioactivity coming in to draw up the whole plan, and she was the only one who knew enough arithmancy to actually write the proof. I never even would’ve _thought_ to do it without her.”

Someone in the audience with a French accent shouted “Give it to Granger!” and the call was swiftly repeated. The representatives of the two journals on the stage started getting restless.

“Oh, they’re not gonna give it to her,” Rebecca said loudly. “The reason Hermione was shut out of this award was completely political. Just because some bureaucrat at the Ministry has a grudge against her and decided to smear her in the paper, they folded like a cheap robe.”

Madam Sisenna and Mr. Tinworth jumped up and rushed to pull her away from the podium. “I don’t care what she did,” Rebecca yelled as she was pulled away, “Hermione is the best arithmancer I’ve ever met, and every one of her papers was her own work!”

It would have been a gross exaggeration to say that the ceremony descended into chaos after that, but it did pretty well fall apart. The staff from the journals escorted Rebecca from the building to stop her from spouting off further, and a minute later, one of them came up to Hermione as well and said, “Miss Granger, we think it’s best if you leave now.”

“Now wait a minute,” her dad protested. “She didn’t even do anything.”

“It’s fine, Dad,” Hermione cut him off. “I doubt they’re going to have the reception at this point.” If there was one thing Rebecca was, it was stubborn, and Hermione knew she’d keep fighting now that she’d set her mind to it, and Septima would follow her lead in a heartbeat, so she walked out of the theatre with her head held high. On the way, she heard a loud argument between Mr. Tinworth of _Annals of Arithmancy_ , the French wizard who had called out earlier, and a witch from the Eigen family. From what she could gather, they were patrons of the journal and were threatening to withdraw their support or even to push to have the whole thing relocated to the Continent. She smiled as she walked past. Maybe politics didn’t trump all after all.

Near the exit, she spotted the American arithmancer she had noted earlier and slipped him her contact information. “I have an idea I think you could help with,” she said. “I’d like to write to you if you don’t mind.” The wizard thanked her sincerely, and she proceeded to the exit, where she was a little surprised to see Rebecca standing across the street. She walked up to her.

“Hermione,” the older girl said.

“Rebecca,” she replied. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did. Academic integrity, Hermione. I can admit I can be kinda selfish sometimes, but I could _not_ stand for that. Plus, you absolutely didn’t deserve what Umbridge did to you in the paper…and I’m sorry for making it worse for you. Here.”

Hermione looked down, and she saw Rebecca holding out her Wenlock Medal and plaque. “You mean—” she said.

“Get it re-engraved with your name. You’re the one who did most of the arithmancy. You deserve it…I’m keeping the Gamp. You’ll have to duel me if you want that one, but this way, we can at least share the prizes properly.”

“Wow…thank you, Rebecca,” Hermione said. Maybe this mess hadn’t turned out too badly after all.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling can break out of Azkaban…without a wand.
> 
> I was surprised to discover when I was writing this chapter that Britain didn’t ban handguns until 1997. At the time this story takes place, it was legal to own many forms of pistols, small-calibre semi-automatic rifles, and hunting rifles and shotguns, although it was still difficult to acquire them.

_MASS BREAKOUT FROM AZKABAN!_

Hermione yelped and nearly dropped her tea when she saw the headline at the top of the _Daily Prophet_. Her parents rushed to see what was wrong and gasped at the sight. Beneath the banner headline were eleven Wanted posters for eleven formerly-captured Death Eaters.

_Bellatrix Lestrange, convicted of the torture and permanent incapacitation of Aurors Frank and Alice Longbottom._

“Neville’s parents,” Hermione explained to her parents. Neville wouldn’t be having a good day today. She noted that Bellatrix’s husband and brother-in-law were also on the list, although she looked crazier than the lot of them together.

_Augustus Rookwood, convicted of leaking Ministry secrets to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Warning: Rookwood is a former Unspeakable and is expert at many dark and arcane forms of magic._

“He’ll be trouble. Think magical weapons engineer,” she said.

“You have those?” Dan said.

“Uh huh. What do you think arithmancers do besides teaching?” She looked back at the paper.

_Antonin Dolohov, convicted of the brutal murders of Fabian and Gideon Prewett._

“Mrs. Weasley’s brothers,” she said.

And perhaps worst of all: _Peter Pettigrew, convicted of betraying James and Lily Potter to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, mass murder, and orchestrating the unlawful imprisonment of Sirius Black. Warning: Pettigrew is a rat animagus and a known spy._

“My God, how did this happen,” Emma said hollowly.

Hermione read over the article: _“Escaped in the early morning by as-yet-uncertain means…Minister Fudge asserted the escape to be the work of deranged escaped Death Eater Barty Crouch Junior…anonymous sources in the DMLE claimed the dementors of Azkaban are no longer loyal…denied by the Minister—_ Well, of course he would. It’s pretty clear what happened. Voldemort converted the dementors to his side, and they just _let_ the prisoners out… _several guards injured, but none seriously_ —That’ll be because Voldemort’s lying low… _However, there was one fatality, as—_ Oh, God!” She squeaked.

The paper went limp in her hands. She felt like she suddenly couldn’t breathe. Her parents looked on with concern as all the colour drained from her face, and she began to turn green. “Hermione?” Mum said. She didn’t hear. Her hands clenched so tight that her knuckles turned white, and the paper began to smolder around her fingers.

“Hermione!” Mum shouted.

Hermione felt sick. And accidental magic as _her_ age! She hadn’t experienced a whiff of it since she was thirteen. She dropped the paper and ran to the sink where she threw up the half of her breakfast she had eaten.

“Hermione! What’s wrong? What happened?” her parents said frantically.

She could barely speak, though. She staggered back to the table and stabbed her figure at _that_ line in the article. “There—there—Sturgis Podmore—” she managed.

_However, there was one fatality, as Sturgis Podmore, 39, who was serving a six-month sentence for trespass at the Ministry, was tragically Kissed by a dementor in the confusion._

“Kissed?” Dad said. “You mean where they suck out his soul—”

“Don’t say it!” Hermione gasped. She couldn’t bear to hear it. She wasn’t even sure what she was feeling right now. Just that she had to _do_ something! “Dumbledore’s group—” she said. “Wasn’t supposed to be there—railroaded by the Ministry—and—and Dumbledore didn’t do anything!” At once, her anger crystallised on a target. “Oh, I’m gonna _kill_ him!” She ran for the front door, drawing one of her homemade wands as she did so.

“Hermione!” her dad yelled. She could hear them running after her, but she wasn’t in a mood to listen. She wasn’t fast enough, though, because he grabbed her from behind in a bear hug while she fumbled with the doorknob and lifted her off the ground.

“Let me go!” she yelled, kicking her feet.

 _“Hermione, stop!”_ he shouted.

She did.

Dad took a deep breath and carefully set her back on her feet. “I don’t know _what_ _’s_ going on with you, but I am _not_ letting you go out that door in this state,” he said sternly. “Now, you are going to sit down and explain to us what the problem is and why you’ve gone so hysterical before you run off and do something you regret.”

Hermione sighed and sat down, realising what she’d nearly done. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve been trying not to let my temper get the better of me, but it’s been hard, with the stress of…” She trailed off. She tried some quick meditation exercises, but they only helped a little in her current state. She was still seething inside, but at least she was clearheaded enough not to act on it…for now. She took a deep breath and tried to explain. “I don’t know all the details,” she said, “but Sturgis Podmore was a member of Professor Dumbledore’s resistance group. He was guarding something in a restricted area of the Ministry on Dumbledore’s orders. Now, they either caught him loitering after hours and convicted him of trumped-up charges, or he was Imperiused and really did try to get into the restricted area because of it, and they didn’t believe his defence. Either way, he was sent to Azkaban unjustly, and Dumbledore couldn’t or wouldn’t stop it. And now he’s…” She gulped and felt sick again. “Been Kissed…either dead…or worse, d-depending whom you ask.”

“Oh, dear,” Mum said.

“Learning about the Dementor’s Kiss was what set me off when I had that big breakdown in third year, remember?” she continued. “I’m sorry I freaked out. It’s just that the thought that Dumbledore would let that happen to one of his own people…Do you know how many mistakes he’s made this year? He made Harry go back to his awful relatives, saying he’d be safe there, and what happened? Dementors. Again. He told us not to write to Harry and didn’t tell us why, and so I went over his head, never knowing there was a legitimate reason. And then, his attempts to solve that problem were…” She hadn’t told her parents about Occlumency in much detail, just a little about meditation and the like, so she couldn’t really explain.

“Okay, we understand you have some problems with Professor Dumbledore,” Dad said, “but that doesn’t excuse you storming off with your wand out right after you were just sick.”

“I’m sorry. I…I panicked. And I was only going to use my wand to call the Knight Bus, I swear. But Dad, I really need to do this.” She stood up again. “I want to go to Hogwarts and give Dumbledore a piece of my mind. I’m not going to attack him, okay? But I _am_ going to demand an explanation because I just… _can_ _’t_ accept these kinds of things happening.”

“Is it really that important to you, Hermione?” Mum said cautiously.

“Mum, a man just got his soul sucked out! I’m having a spiritual crisis here!” She stopped and took a deep breath. The Occlumency exercises were starting to have a little more effect. “I have good friends working for Dumbledore, and I’m worried he’s putting them in danger—unacceptable levels of danger, I mean. I need to try to resolve this before anything else happens…Please?”

“Can’t you even get into Hogwarts now?” said Dad.

“Guests are allowed in at the discretion of the Headmaster. If he doesn’t want to see me, he can throw me out.”

He sighed and hugged her once. “Do you promise you won’t do anything dangerous and/or illegal?”

“Yes, Dad, I promise.”

He glanced at Mum, who nodded. “Then fine, it sounds like this is very important to you, but we expect a full account when you get back, and we expect you to control yourself better in the future.”

“Alright. Thanks, Mum. Thanks, Dad…I’ll probably be back in time for lunch.” She turned and walked out the front door, calmly this time, and called the Knight Bus at the curb.

“Where to, miss?” the conductor said as she pushed on board.

Hermione was going to say the first stop with a public Floo, but she looked and saw that the bus was nearly empty. Probably not many people travelling with eleven more Death Eaters on the loose. Silly, really, but they didn’t know Voldemort and therefore the Death Eaters were lying low. “The gates of Hogwarts,” she said, calculating the odds that waiting for her stop would be faster than walking from Hogsmeade.

“Late gettin’ back to school?” Stan asked.

“Independent study,” she answered curtly, and took her seat.

She tried to think clearly amid the bangs and mad driving of the bus. She was still stewing over how awful what happened was. Somehow, Sturgis Podmore being Kissed felt worse to her than eleven dangerous criminals escaping prison. Silly, perhaps, but right now, it was her top priority. Dumbledore had let this happen. He had thrown one of his own to the proverbial wolves. That wasn’t right. She needed to sort this out. Goodness, what she was going to say to him? Oh, she would listen to his explanation as calmly as she could—and she could guess at least part of it already—but she wasn’t sure if it could ever be enough. She didn’t know if she could ever fully trust Dumbledore after this. What else was he capable of? What other secrets was he keeping?

She reached the gates of Hogwarts and took out the Mathemagician’s Map. It was a little risky, crossing the grounds in broad daylight. If Umbridge spotted her, there could be trouble. But using her Map, she made it to Dumbledore’s office without being noticed. She gave the password he had told her for their meeting on Saturday (“Chocoballs”), and was relieved to find he was actually in his office. She hadn’t thought about that until she got there.

She felt her anger surge again upon seeing the old man’s face, but she forced it down the best she could. She quickly noted that Dumbledore looked shaken himself. She knew he must be having a hard time today, with everything that was going on, but she was having a hard time caring just now.

“Hermione?” Dumbledore said inquisitively.

Hermione held up the front page of the _Daily Prophet_ clutched in a trembling hand. “Sturgis…Podmore…” she ground out.

Dumbledore sighed and motioned to an empty chair. “Please have a seat, Hermione. I know you must be feeling very distressed. Septima told me in your third year that you had a very bad reaction to learning the truth about dementors. You may not want to hear this at the moment, but I do sympathise. I have worked for many years for the cause of removing the dementors from Azkaban, but always without success. The political will to keep them there has always been too great.”

Hermione sat, but she didn’t cut him any slack. Not yet. “Do you know how he even wound up in Azkaban?” she demanded.

“I cannot tell you everything, but all evidence suggests that Sturgis was Imperiused—most likely by Lucius Malfoy, although it could have been any Death Eater. Since you have probably already guessed it, Sturgis’s orders that night were to stand guard outside the Department of Mysteries. He instead attempted to break in to the Department. The Ministry chose not to consider the possibility of the Imperius Curse, despite admitting that Barty Crouch Jr was on the loose and was suspect, and to, as they say, throw the book at Sturgis…” Dumbledore’s voice choked a little, and Hermione could see tears in his eyes. “He was a good man,” he said. “Loyal. Dedicated. He refused to explain what he was doing there or claim any association with me whatsoever. He could have avoided Azkaban by implicating me instead. The Ministry could have done little to me directly, but it would have made it much harder for the Order to operate. Instead, he refused to talk. He believed defeating Voldemort was more important than a few months in Azkaban.”

“And did he consider the possibility of losing his soul in there?” Hermione said, and Dumbledore winced. “Better yet, did _you_ consider it?” she added. “ _You_ _’re_ the one who said the dementors were untrustworthy. You knew Voldemort would want to break his followers out sooner or later. Didn’t you see this coming?”

He looked down at his hands. “I thought it unlikely, but I admit I could see the possibility, yes.”

“And you still didn’t do anything?!” she shouted.

“I’m afraid there was very little I could do, Hermione. Sturgis made his choice. If I had tried to fight it, it would have done much greater harm to the Order.”

“You should’ve done _something!_ Good God, a man’s lost his _soul_ , Professor! That could’ve been Mr. Weasley, you know. I bet Daddy Malfoy would’ve loved that loads more, too. It could’ve been Emmeline Vance or Dedalus Diggle or Remus or any of the Order members you’ve sent down there.”

“Hermione—” he cut her off. She could see him blinking back tears again. “I am…all too aware of the danger in which I am placing every member of the Order. We lost a third of our number in the last war. Yet if we should fail, it will be far worse. Even the Dementor’s Kiss is not outside Voldemort’s repertoire. We spoke last autumn about the hard choices that must be made in war, and you are seeing that now. And you must consider that, perhaps, your personal prejudices are clouding your judgement.”

“Well, maybe they are!” she snapped. “There’s only so much I can _take_ , Professor…You told me to try to think strategically—to try to understand the position you’re in and the—the sacrifices you have to make. And I _am_ trying, but…but damn it all, it’s getting hard! Harry attacked by dementors, the way you handled the Occlumency thing, and now _this_?”

“And what would you have had me do, Hermione?” Dumbledore said quietly. “You know of the political situation that is working against us.”

“I don’t _know!_ I’m only sixteen! _You_ _’re_ supposed to be the authority figure here. _You_ _’re_ supposed to be the one who protects the people who follow you. I know you got kicked out of the Wizengamot, but you’re still the one who’s worked inside the political system for fifty years, not me. You should’ve…” She cracked, and tears started to fall. “I don’t know. There just should’ve been a way to protect him from this.”

Dumbledore sighed: “Perhaps there was; perhaps not. I do not pretend to be infallible, and I never have, despite what some may think. I was not working under such a disadvantage in the last war; even though I was working outside the Ministry, the Ministry was still on our side. I made the choice that I thought was best at the time.”

“Well, I’m sorry, Professor, but I can’t see that from where I’m sitting.”

“And I appreciate your position, but I’m afraid we will have to agree to disagree on this point.”

Hermione glared at Dumbledore, but he just watched her with his usual friendly expression. Eventually, she tried a different tack: “How important is this thing you’re guarding, anyway?”

“I assure you it is of the highest importance. It is the one thing that is preventing Voldemort from striking openly.”

Hermione was about to accept that before she spotted the flaw in the argument. She took a minute to think it through and then said, “How much strategic value is there in that if the Ministry won’t admit he’s back until he does, Professor?”

“Yes, I can see your line of reasoning, Hermione, but it is more important than ever now that Azkaban has been breached. Now, there is no excuse for the Ministry not to build up its forces to fight the escaped Death Eaters. Delaying the onset of war will put us in a stronger position, while Voldemort must continue to lie low.”

“Fair enough,” she admitted, “but what’s the point of even _having_ a guard there? If the Death Eaters come in force, they wouldn’t stand a chance!”

“‘Guard’ may have been an ill choice of words. Their function is more of a lookout to alert the Order if Voldemort tries something, either to respond without going through the Ministry channels if we must, or, conversely, to alert the Ministry to Voldemort’s return if we can.”

“And do you think that was worth it?” she said coldly.

“I thought it was worth the risk at the time,” he replied.

“Fancy way of saying yes,” she grumbled.

“I may reevaluate my stratagems now, Hermione, but I must remind you that I do not, ultimately, need to justify myself to you.”

“I’m not the one you need to justify yourself to.”

“Excuse me?”

“Professor Dumbledore, I don’t know what faith you follow, but in mine, there _is_ an ultimate Judge—one who is rather interested in matters of the soul, in fact. Now, I’ve read up on dementors, and of the various theories of what the Dementor’s Kiss does to the soul, death is the _kindest_ thing on the list. I’m asking you, can you stand before God and say that this _thing_ the Order is guarding, whatever it is—if Sturgis Podmore even knew himself what it was—this ‘something like a weapon’—that it was really worth not just a man’s life, but his _soul?_ And besides that, can you look at the Order, who look up to you and trust you, who are risking _everything_ to follow you for the sake of defeating Voldemort, and tell them that that it was worth it, and you still have to ask them again to be willing to make the same sacrifice? Can you tell them that? Because, frankly, I don’t think I could.”

A faint grimace seemed to cross Dumbledore’s face as she spoke. She felt a little bad about it, because he was clearly hurting from Podmore’s death and the mass breakout as well, but she didn’t let up. When she was done, he bowed his head slightly. “I wish I had a better answer for you, Hermione,” he said. “I am sorry to see this has caused you such turmoil, but I can say only that I am doing the best I can. This has caused me great pain as well, and I daresay I have second-guessed myself more than you know…I cannot tell you the correct way to lead. We must each do what we think is best, and good people will yet disagree on what that is. Only, I hope you will not think me unfeeling at such a time—and that you will continue to stand with us against Voldemort.”

“Oh, I’m against Voldemort, Professor. Never doubt that,” she said, standing up to go. “I apologise for barging in here. I felt we needed to resolve this now to avoid a more public conflict later. And…unless you object, I’ll still be back for Occlumency lessons on Saturday.”

“I had hoped you would. Good day.”

Hermione had a lot to think about on her way home. She was certainly glad her dad had calmed her down before she came. True, the bus ride might have done, but if she’d gone into Dumbledore’s office in a blind rage, it would not have gone well. She really did need to work on that. He had some good points, she had to admit, even if she didn’t agree with him, and it was better that she listened to them properly.

One thing was certain, though: she couldn’t trust Dumbledore anymore. Not like she did before. He was a good man, but there was only so far she could go. Yes, she could trust that they were on the same side against Voldemort and the Ministry’s obstructionism, but she couldn’t follow him like the Order did, and she was more anxious than ever about her friends who were part of it. And here she was, one of the co-founders of Dumbledore’s Army! But no, she couldn’t lead the way he did. Like he’d said, she would have to find her own way to lead.

 _Was_ she a leader, she wondered? She was one in the D.A. She had done most of the planning and a fair part of the teaching. She’d made the executive decisions about what to do with her spells. But could she handle it if her role grew? What would she have done about Sturgis Podmore in Dumbledore’s shoes?

Well, she certainly would have arranged a better communications system. Mr. Weasley shouldn’t have had to rely on luck to get out of there alive. No system was foolproof, but there was a decent chance even her D.A. galleons would have done the trick.

As she rode back, the germ of an idea began to form in Hermione’s mind, and she decided to act. It was time to take matters into her own hands. She would be at Headquarters the next two days, so she had that long to plan. Then, it would be time to get to work.

* * *

_Potions_

“Mr. Weasley, it’s good to see you’re home from the hospital. How are you feeling?”

“Right as rain,” Mr. Weasley said, greeting Hermione warmly. “They say I need another week before I go back to work, but you know how Healers are—over-cautious. But fortunately, I report to Amelia Bones instead of Fudge, so I don’t have to worry about getting sacked just yet.”

“Er, that’s good, I guess,” Hermione said.

“And isn’t this unexpected?” he changed the subject. “I didn’t take you for one to go the private tutoring route—at least not this late in your schooling.”

“It was the best option for me. My parents don’t feel too warmly towards Hogwarts after the three years I spent there, and _I_ don’t feel too warmly towards what Umbridge has turned it into. I was just lucky Professor Slughorn was willing to teach me. I never cared for being holed up a thousand miles away at Beauxbatons.”

“Well, we’re happy to see you around, Hermione, dear,” Mrs. Weasley cut in. “Anything for breakfast?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I already ate.” Hermione had half-expected Mrs. Weasley to make a comment about dropping out of Hogwarts or about doing magic outside of school, but of course, she understood the situation. Still, she expected to get an earful if the Twins were to decide they’d had enough one day, which was very possible.

“Just holler if you need anything, then,” Mrs. Weasley said. And I’ll be here if you need an extra hand with the lessons, Professor.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Molly,” Slughorn said. “I daresay if you’ve kept your potions skills as sharp as your cooking skills, you could probably teach a lot of it.”

Mrs. Weasley blushed. “Well, I try,” she said. “And I was a pretty good hand at Defence in my day, too, so just call if you need anything.”

Mrs. Weasley? A defence expert? Hermione almost couldn’t believe it. But then, she must be in the Order for a reason…

“Will do, Molly,” Slughorn replied. “Now, Miss Granger, I’ve acquired a copy of your transcripts from Beauxbatons. Very impressive. All excellent marks, of course. I don’t have a complete record from Hogwarts, but no matter. I thought we would have the practical lessons down here in the kitchen, where it’s easy to clean up, and do the theory portion in the drawing room. Except for Defence, of course. Molly doesn’t want us throwing hexes around the food. It’ll be a bit cramped, but Mr. Black managed to clear enough space in the attic to practice the spells.”

“That sounds good to me, sir,” Hermione agreed.

“Excellent. Let’s start with Potions, then, shall we? You’ve brought your kit, I hope?”

“Of course.” She quickly retrieved her collapsible cauldron, ingredients, and preparation equipment from her overnight bag. However, Slughorn frowned when he saw the cauldron.

“Oh, dear. Still using pewter, I see?”

“Yes? The supply list never specified anything else.”

“Yes, yes, that’s because pewter is the cheapest, and the books are always written with pewter in mind—you have to adjust the brewing times for anything else. But you should really be using copper at your level. A bit more finicky in the details, but much less risk of a total meltdown, and you get purer results.”

“Oh…I guess I can buy a new one for next week.”

“You’d be doing yourself a great favour, Miss Granger, but we’ll use mine for today.” He set up his own cauldron and laid out some less standard ingredients. “Now, let’s start by seeing where you stand right now. I like to see you brew a Draught of Peace—one of the trickiest potions on the O.W.L. standard—many, many ways to go badly wrong. Why, I’ve seen Draughts of Peace that would have got better marks as Draughts of Living Death. Ha! But I’m sure you won’t have that problem. For potions that don’t have to simmer for an extended period, the brewing times for copper are usually three-quarters of those for pewter. Let me just check…” He read over the recipe. “Yes, I believe all of them are for this one.”

Hermione got to work. It seemed she had to reevaluate her assessment that Potions class couldn’t be sped up. The brewing seemed to fly by with the copper cauldron. She felt more challenged than she had in a long time simply because she had to prepare the ingredients and react to changes that much faster, but she pushed through it. She looked over and saw Mrs. Weasley nodding along through the process. Perhaps she ought to talk to her sometime, too. After what seemed like no time at all, she got the potion done without a hitch, just as she had done at the beginning of last term.

“Very good progress,” Slughorn said, eyeing the light silver vapour rising from the cauldron. “Very good. This potion is perfectly potable. I see you can follow a recipe with the best of them, Miss Granger.”

She frowned. That wasn’t exactly the response she was hoping for.

“Well, I’d call it Outstanding, Professor,” Mrs. Weasley said. “You don’t want to fiddle too much with Draught of Peace.”

“True enough, Molly, but there’s always room for improvement. Have you done much experimental potions work, Miss Granger?”

“Not really. We covered some of the arithmantic theory, but Professor Snape never had us make any significant changes in class.”

“Ah, Snape. One of my best students, but not so much the temperament for teaching, I’m afraid,” Slughorn replied. “Your potion is excellent as it is, but the _true_ art of potions is to adapt and experiment. The books are usually written with standard methods, simplifying the process, making potions that are just ‘good enough’ in the name of ease of brewing and ease of remembering. Using twelve beans when thirteen would be better, leaving out a few irregular stirs, and so on. And even more important, they don’t account for the natural variation in ingredients. You might need a little more or a little less of something for a particular batch, depending on the quality. At O.W.L.-level, you will usually only be expected to follow the recipe, but at N.E.W.T.-level, you’ll be expected to be able to make small improvements on the printed text, and that’s a good habit to start now.”

Hermione was surprised. She’d studied the theory, but she’d never thought much of it. This was a spin on potions she hadn’t heard before.

“Of course, Draught of Peace is very fiddly, so there’s not much you can do with it, but you could, for example, dilute the syrup of hellebore by a factor of four and add seven drops instead of two concentrated ones to arithmantically balance it. Still you are an excellent brewer, Miss Granger. I wonder…What would you say is the most complicated potion you’ve brewed?”

Hermione eyed Mrs. Weasley warily. Professor Slughorn seemed indulgent enough to get away with telling him, but she couldn’t say it in front of her. She leaned closer to him and mouthed, “Ask me upstairs.”

Slughorn raised an eyebrow interestedly, but he let it go for the time being.

* * *

_Transfiguration_

“Now, I know your theoretical knowledge of Transfiguration is unsurpassed, thanks to your recent papers, but let’s see how you do with practical work. One of the most important parts of the O.W.L. standard is a complete proficiency with Vanishing Spells. How far did you get in class last term?”

“I got up to conjured kittens, Professor.”

“I see. Why don’t you demonstrate for me now?”

He conjured up a tabby kitten on the spot, and Hermione easily returned the magical construct to non-being, much to his delight. He asked her to perform a few more fifth-year spells such as the Gemino Charm, stopping when she reached the limit of her knowledge.

They were wrapping up the lesson when she suggested, “Actually, Professor, while we’re on the subject, there’s an experiment I’ve been wanting to try.”

“Oho, an experiment? Still making waves, are you?”

“Probably nothing momentous,” she said. “You might even know the answer already, but it might be easier to just show you. I’ll be back in a minute.” She went upstairs to track down Sirius.

“Hey, Hermione, taking a break?” he asked.

“Doing an experiment. I need a pillow that’s been used recently, but that you don’t need anymore.”

“Huh? Used recently, but don’t need? Hmm…” Sirius was confused, but he grabbed a pillow from his room and brought it down to the kitchen. Hermione set it on the table and proceeded to vanish it. It was larger than the kitten and not conjured, but she managed it without too much effort. What she did next was the odd part. She transfigured a water goblet into a powerful magnifying glass and examined the table carefully.

“Um…what are you doing?” Sirius asked.

“Well, there was something I didn’t understand about Vanishing Spells. Professor McGonagall said that live animals can’t be vanished, but any well-used pillow ought to contain tens of thousands of live dust mites.”

 _“What?!”_ Mrs. Weasley yelped.

“It’s well-documented, Mrs. Weasley, at least in muggle homes. They’re too small to see easily, and they don’t cause many problems besides allergies, but I don’t see any of them here.”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Sirius said. “It’s a side effect of the spell. The amount of magic it takes to vanish the pillow kills the bugs and vanishes them, too.”

“It does?”

“Sure. High concentrations of magic can do that. It only gets rid of invertebrates and nothing bigger than a cupboard spider unless you really blast it, but it can be pretty convenient for cleaning. Of course, it can be right scary if you get a magical infestation that it _doesn_ _’t_ work on.”

“Huh. I was not expecting that.”

* * *

_Ancient Runes_

Charms, Herbology, and Magical Creatures were all pretty straightforward. Hermione just showed what she knew, and Professor Slughorn made notes for his lesson plan. Runes was a little more involved, though.

“Ah, Ancient Runes,” he said, “a vast and deep subject. There’s probably more obscure and arcane lore in runes than in any other branch of magic, just because every language can create its own version. Any writing system can be used for Runes, you know, but of course, beginners stick to the classical languages. Is the curriculum still all Norse at Hogwarts?”

“It is at O.W.L.-level,” Hermione answered, “although Professor Babbling tries to include other languages. She started a club in my first year that covers interesting topics including English rune usage. And we learnt some Greek and Latin at Beauxbatons.”

“Very good. I prefer a more well-rounded backing in runes. One thing that I’ve always felt was an oversight at Hogwarts was focusing too much on the Futhark. And I’ve always felt we needed to include Ogham, so we’ll throw a bit of that in as well. Ogham has nice simple shapes and straight lines, like Futhark, and it’s native to the British Isles, so it has the same advantages of geometry and history.”

“Really? That’s actually something I’ve wondered about, Professor,” Hermione said. “The geometry and the language. When Professor Babbling taught us to write names of spells in plain text to use as runes, they held the spells just fine, even though the shapes were arbitrary Latin letters, but for the Norse runes, the geometric shapes give them Arithmantic power associated with their traditional meanings.”

“Yes, indeed, Miss Granger. That is the subtle interplay between meaning and intent, and between shapes and energies. It’s similar to the process of devising verbal incantations for spells, but endlessly more complex. You’ve probably heard that so-called ‘sacred’ languages make more powerful runes. That’s because they’re _believed_ to be more powerful. Of course, those also happen to be the languages that are passed down by the educated. That’s why most of the rune work in Western Civilisation was done in Latin, Greek, or Hebrew before the Futhark was found to be easier to work with.

“But it’s not just the mainstream languages that work as runes. Even abstract shapes can be imbued with runic power if they have meaning to the caster, although that’s a very advanced technique. Words, on the other hand, have a common, agreed-upon meaning that has a power all its own. And sacred languages are among the most widely known and agreed upon.”

“But even a very rare or obscure language holds some power by virtue of its speakers agreeing upon the meaning of the words?” Hermione suggested.

“Exactly! That’s the intent component of runes. And even if it’s little-spoken, some of the most powerful enchantments come from using obscure languages that a would-be wardbreaker doesn’t recognise.”

Hermione remembered Professor Babbling’s protection on the Philosopher’s Stone, which used every writing system imaginable. Perhaps muggle scholarship could turn up even more obscure languages that would be useful—something to look up in a muggle library or bookshop sometime. Meanwhile, they reviewed the runes that Hermione already knew, and Professor Slughorn gave her an introduction to Ogham runes before he came back around to the subject of her potions brewing before they got on to Defence.

“So, Miss Granger, before we go upstairs, what is this potion you brewed that you couldn’t tell me about earlier?” he said.

Hermione reached into her handbag. “Without saying why I did it, Professor,” she said, “or how I got the ingredients…it was Veritaserum.” She pulled out the small phial and handed it to him.

Slughorn’s eyes grew wide. He held the phial carefully in his hand and waved his wand over it, speaking, _“Incantans Scarpinis Revela.”_ Swirls of an oddly thin and pure white light flitted around it. “Merlin’s beard! It really _is_ Veritaserum. You brewed this yourself, Miss Granger?”

“Yes.”

“And have you tested it?”

“I have. I used it on Peter Pettigrew when we caught him, for one.”

“Pettigrew? But wasn’t he captured a year and a half ago? When did you brew this?”

“Three years ago this past Christmas.”

 _“Merlin’s beard!”_ Slughorn fumbled with the phial as he nearly dropped it. “You brewed this when you were thirteen?”

“Yes, sir. It was just a matter of following the recipe precisely.”

“Hm…This isn’t a full batch, I see. You’ve used quite a bit of it.”

“Not much, actually. I didn’t get a whole batch because my still wasn’t very good. I had to improvise it from the glassware in my kit.”

His mouth dropped open. He fumbled with words for a minute before he finally said, “Miss Granger, someday, when the statute of limitations has expired, I should like to hear the full story behind this potion.” He handed it back to her with a grin.

She smiled, but she was suddenly aware that she had just provided Slughorn with blackmail material, and he was the kind of person to use it if he wanted something badly enough…though on the other hand, she hadn’t technically said anything actionable, and he had no real evidence…so it was probably a wash.

* * *

_Defence_

“Now, the Ministry curriculum says that I’m required to teach you from Wilbert Slinkhard’s _Defensive Magical Theory_ —”

“Already read it cover to cover,” Hermione said at once. “I thought it was hopelessly naive, but I’m confident I could pass an exam on it better than most of my peers.”

“Ah, of course,” Slughorn said with a smile. “Since you’ve already covered the material, let’s do something fun. Have you studied from any other Defence texts?”

“A fair amount at Beauxbatons last year. Quite a bit of self-study this year. And I’ve invented a few hexes of my own.”

“Oho, I should like to see those. I haven’t done much duelling in a long time, but I was pretty good back in the day, if I do say so. Let’s see what you can do.”

Slughorn was right. There wasn’t as much room in the attic as there was in the Room of Requirement—not really enough for a proper duel. Still, he transfigured a piece of wood into a dummy with surprising skill and set it up at the opposite end of the cleared space. He motioned for her to take her position and have at it.

“Er, not all of my hexes have obvious effects, Professor, but I’ll see what I can do,” she said. She brandished her red oak wand (right-handed this time) and started casting.

 _“Dasask Cohaerens!”_ A dazzling green light played across the dummy’s face. _“Didumosa Tacheia!”_ A blue bolt struck it, but had no visible effect. She kept going. _“Lumos Ardens!”_ A red laser beam struck it and burned where it touched, much to Slughorn’s surprise. _“Myxinos!”_ The dummy was covered in slime. _“Expelliarmus Resilio!”_ Slughorn gasped as she bounced a Disarming Charm off the ceiling. _“Terebradent!”_ The dummy’s mouth was drilled with holes. _“Fulmina!”_ a bolt of lightning struck it with a loud crack. _“Extonio!”_ a white spell struck it with a loud flash and a bang.

She looked back at Professor Slughorn. He was gaping at her. “A _few_ hexes?” he said.

Hermione shrugged. “A few, seventeen—what’s the difference?”

“Miss Granger, any other student your age would still be learning the rudiments of spellcrafting. That performance was simply phenomenal. Now, there _is_ a quite extensive standard for the O.W.L. exam, so let’s see how you do with some of the staples. Show me a Disarmer.”

 _“Expelliarmus!”_ she cast.

“Good. Stunner.”

_“Stupefy!”_

“Shield.”

_“Protego!”_

“General counter-spell.”

_“Finite Incantatem!”_

“Banishing Charm.”

_“Depulso!”_

“Cutting Curse.”

 _“Diffindo!”_ She under-powered the spell, worried that it would go right through the transfigured dummy and into the wall, but it clearly worked.

“Yes, yes. Hm, I heard a rumour about you, Miss Granger…Patronus Charm?”

Hermione grinned. _“Expecto Patronum!”_

“Excellent!” he exclaimed. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen such mastery of that spell at your age.”

“Daily practice, Professor,” Hermione said.

“Naturally. You have a very good grounding in the basics, so we’ll make sure you know all the spells on the standard, and the standard duelling practises, and throw in a few other fun things for good measure. For example, do you know any multi-layered shield spells?”

“Multi-layered? No, I’ve seen a few references, but no details.”

“They’re not widely taught in schools, it’s true. They become harder to cast the more layers you use, but good duellists will often use double or triple shields, and exceptional ones four or five. I think it would be right up your alley. You see, you add layers by adding more terms to the arithmantic expansion.”

Hermione grinned. She _definitely_ wanted to learn that.

* * *

It had been a long, tiring two days when Hermione finally left Grimmauld place for home. They decided it would be better to split up the two days in the future and to have her come on Mondays and Thursdays from now on.

She didn’t go straight home, though. Now, it was time to put her plan into action. She took a left and walked to the nearest jewelry store to Grimmauld Place.

She was looking at rings—nothing fancy, just plain bands. The design she had in mind called for no gems or other frills. She was briefly surprised, however, to find that even the cheapest plain gold bands were about a hundred pounds, except for the very thin ones. She would have thought that without any gems and relatively low manufacturing costs—no, now that she thought about it, the price of gold really would make it that high. She wouldn’t be able to afford that. Her income stream wasn’t great after paying Dobby’s salary, and neither gold nor silver was worth the effort to filter from soil. She’d checked. She looked around for something cheaper, but there wasn’t much available.

“Anything I can help you with, miss?”

She looked up and saw the jeweller approaching her. She motioned down to the case. “I’m just looking for something cheap,” she said. “Plain gold. It’s not for anything special.”

“Well, you won’t find much cheaper in solid gold, I’m afraid, but I have some gold-plated bands over here at very reasonable rates,” he said.

She looked at the case the jeweller was pointing to and saw that the gold plated bands started at about ten pounds. And actually, gold plated would be a lot easier to resize with magic. Magic couldn’t change the amount of gold in jewelry, even by resizing (except with the Philosopher’s Stone, of course), but it could do with whatever base metal was underneath and stretch the gold with it.

“May I ask what this is for?” he asked.

Hermione made a show of looking shy and said, “Actually, it’s for a fantasy club.” She reached into her bag and pulled out her copy of _The Fellowship of the Ring_. She pointed to a band with a thickness she liked and showed him the page with the Black Speech inscription on the One Ring. Modifying Tolkien’s inscription to English letters would give her forty-one characters to work with, one more than the galleons, so it was a good fit. “How much would it cost to get a dozen of those engraved with this? And how long would it take?”

The jeweller smiled. “Ah, Tolkien fan, I see. It’s been a while since anyone’s asked for one of these. For twelve…I can have them done in a week for twenty quid apiece. I’ll just need your members to measure their sizes.”

“Already taken care of, sir.” Hermione made up a list of sizes that would sound plausible for a group of teenagers.

“Glad to see you’re on the ball. Whose name should I put this under?”

Hermione thought for a minute. She’d rather this couldn’t be traced to her. She decided to try for an alias. “Our club’s called the Council of Elrond.”

“Ha. Clever. Well, if the money’s good, miss, it works for me.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll be back for them next week.” She handed over two hundred forty pounds in cash. He inspected the bills and shook her hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Incantans Scarpinis Revela: Scarpin’s Revelaspell, approximately Latin for “Scarpin’s enchantment, reveal.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is owned by JK Rowling…and maybe John Tiffany and Jack Thorne a little bit? I’m not really sure how it works.
> 
> Well, I read Harry Potter and the Cursed Child, and it was actually better than I feared based on the rumours. It did some good things, but it also screwed up a lot of things, in my opinion. It did give me one good idea for a Lady Archimedes—but not time turners…and that’s all I’ll say about that.

“I’m sorry, Hermione,” Septima said, “but Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six bans teachers from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach. You _are_ still technically still a student, even though you’re not enrolled here…and my job description does not include Arithmancy beyond N.E.W.T.-level.”

Hermione sighed, fished a sickle out of her pocket, and slapped in Septima’s hand. “You’re hired,” she said.

Septima smiled: “Good to see you, Hermione. Come on in. So, have you heard that _Annals of Arithmancy_ is seriously considering moving to the States?”

“They are?”

“Yes. Apparently, _most_ of the best work is being done over there these days. Our illustrious High Inquisitor is up in arms about it…”

* * *

_“Legilimens.”_

Dumbledore’s spell struck her, but it didn’t seem to have the force it once did. Hermione’s determination was aiding her now. She had practised Occlumency for several hours yesterday and, when she had the time, before that at Grimmauld Place, but the largest factor was her newfound determination to act. Strength of will was not the only factor for Occlumency, but it was an important one.

She wasn’t going to let Dumbledore see her plans. They were on the same side, yes, but she didn’t want him interfering. She was mostly successful in keeping him out of her mind, and to the extent he got in, she managed to steer him to memories of her lessons, and of how distraught she was about Sturgis Podmore, rather than the rest of her reaction. It didn’t hurt the Dumbledore seemed rather interested in her lessons with Professor Slughorn. From what she had read, she had moved on to the more advanced Occlumency technique of redirection—the same technique that Snape must use as a spy against Voldemort—to keep him away from her hidden memories.

“I am glad to see you have not allowed the events of this week to disturb you too much, Hermione,” Dumbledore said when they were done. “You have made a surprising amount of progress from before Christmas.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said. “With Voldemort on the move, I felt like I needed to work that much harder.”

“You have done very well. A few more weeks like this, and we will be able to conclude our lessons.”

Exactly what she was hoping. She nodded.

“You are continuing to help Harry as much as you can? His vision was something of a setback.”

“Of course, sir. It’s harder with me not being here most of the time, but I’m doing what I can.”

“Then I hope he will be back on track soon. Good afternoon, Miss Granger.”

* * *

Hermione had a lot of planning to do. The rings were only the first step. She needed to prepare in other ways, too. More spells. Stronger spells. She’d looked through her mum’s old pathophysiology textbook, but she had hesitated about some of the ideas she got from it. Many were simply impossible. Spells that messed with biochemistry at the molecular level would probably be rapidly fatal, but Gamp’s law meant that most of them just couldn’t be done. But other ideas…spells to dull the nerves, lock up the muscles, rot the teeth out, strangle the respiratory system…even stop the heart could all be possible. She had set aside a lot of them, choosing to start with the milder ones, but not anymore. People were dying and losing their souls out there. She needed to be able to defend herself.

A hard blow to the chest could stop the heart under exactly the right circumstances. If she could find a way to replicate those circumstances, it would be scarily easy. And that was one of the “nicer” (in the sense of less painful) ideas the textbook suggested. It was time she stopped skirting around it.

And what else could she do? Counterspells? Some of them, at least. It would take extra time and effort. These were spells she was never intending to see used on an ally, but there was always the chance for collateral damage. She would need to keep it in mind.

There would certainly be a place for magical artifacts. That’s what Voldemort was after, so it was definitely a useful area to pursue. Runes, enchanted objects, homemade backup wands, and anything George and Fred could dream up—all would be useful.

Transfiguration? Maybe. For all her research, she didn’t know much about the _practical_ limits of transfiguration. Could she transfigure explosives? Poisons? Complex machines like guns? Some simple poisons like lead, arsenic, and maybe even cyanide she could leach from the soil—something to look at closer, although how useful (or ethical) would it be, she wondered?

Armour. Yes, armour would be good. She had her basilisk-skin coat for herself, but most of her friends wouldn’t, and anything that magic-resistant wouldn’t be cheap.

Actually, come to think of it, how strong _was_ her basilisk-skin coat? It would stand up to a lot of curses, but would it stop a bow and arrow? A bullet? Now _that_ would be an interesting experiment.

“Dad?” she asked over breakfast.

“Yes, Hermione?”

“How difficult would it be to get a gun?”

He looked up from the paper. “Pretty difficult,” he said. “They only issue certificates for things like hunting and sport shooting, and I think it takes at least a few weeks. We could do it, though. Why? Do you think we need one?”

She suddenly realised what she was saying and switched gears a bit. “It couldn’t hurt,” she said. “I think a lot of wizards are unfamiliar with them, although a strong Shield Charm could probably stop a bullet. Although I was actually thinking about ways I could test whether my basilisk-skin coat is bulletproof.”

Her dad’s eyes narrowed. “Hermione, getting a Firearm Certificate is probably the most overcomplicated way possible to do that. We don’t want you to ruin your beautiful coat, but if you really feel strongly about it, it would be a lot better to try to talk to a shooting club, if it’s allowed.”

“No, I was just thinking about my options. I might even be able to—” Hm, that was a thought. “Now that I think about it, I might be able to rig up some kind of magical railgun with runes—and a backstop, too—although I don’t know if I’ll be able to get it anywhere near firearms speed.”

“Whoa, whoa, back up. I may need to reevaluate the most overcomplicated thing if you’re talking about magical firearms. And that sounds really dangerous.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad, Dad. I don’t think I could get the functionality any higher than a single-shot pistol. And wands are deadlier weapons than pretty much any firearms we could legally buy.”

Her dad slumped in his seat. “And they sell them to eleven-year-olds?”

“Afraid so. Though to be fair, most wizards never reach that level without Auror training or something similar. But you know, desperate times and all that.”

“We’re going to regret not moving to France, aren’t we?” He muttered. “Look, I won’t say no outright, but you need to let us know what you’re doing and make absolutely sure it’s safe before you try it.”

“Of course, Dad. I will.”

* * *

“It’s an advanced technique called redirection,” Hermione told Harry. “Instead of blocking the Legilimens out, you redirect him to the memories you want him to see.”

“Snape’s not gonna like that,” Harry’s face said in Sirius’s mirror. “He keeps saying I need to block him out better.”

“It’s exactly the technique Snape would need to use against Voldemort,” she said. “If he disapproves of you using it, it’s because he doesn’t think you’re ready, but that’s not the point. It’s a useful technique to have in reserve for when he _does_ break through.”

“It’s not that easy, though. When Snape gets in, he always just goes through my memories however he wants, and I can’t stop him.”

“It’s not that hard. I can do it.”

_“What?”_

“Er, there’s an equivalent muggle technique called guided meditation,” she saved herself. You direct the images the way you want them to go. Look, Harry, I know it’s annoying because Snape keeps harping on it, but it really does get easier with practice. You’re getting better, aren’t you?”

“Some. Not enough,” he grumbled.

“You’ll get there, Harry. You just need to keep at it.”

“Yeah, I guess. I’ve got to go. Mirror off.”

Harry’s face vanished, and Hermione also prepared to go home from Grimmauld Place. When she went to return the mirror, though, she saw Sirius looking over an old photo album.

“What are you looking at, Sirius?” she asked.

“Old photos from the first Order,” he said. “Did you ever see them?”

“No, I don’t think I did.”

“Here, take a look.” He showed her a photo of a small crowd of people waving at her. At a glance, she could spot Hagrid, then Dumbledore and another grey-bearded wizard who looked eerily like him, then a wizard who looked a lot like Harry—his father, standing beside Lily and a much younger Sirius and Remus.

“You’ll probably recognise a lot of them,” Sirius said. “A lot of the others are gone. That’s Fabian and Gideon Prewett there.” He pointed out two redheaded young men who looked heart-wrenchingly like Fred and George. “You’ve heard what happened to them. That’s Dumbledore’s brother, Aberforth. He’s still around, just never see him.” He pointed to the grey-bearded man, then to a few others who were not longer alive. Sturgis Podmore was there. Hermione had never met him personally, but he looked young and overconfident just like Sirius and James in the photo.

She took the photo and turned it over. On the back in Dumbledore’s handwriting was _Order of the Phoenix, June 1981_.

“That was the last group photo we took,” Sirius explained. “It was the only time the Potters came out of hiding all that year. We called it the Summer of Hell, what happened after that. We lost _seven_ people between this photo and Halloween—people we couldn’t afford to lose. And the Potters and the Longbottoms in hiding, and they were some of our best…You can’t imagine how bad it was. We were so close to losing before the end.”

Hermione shuddered. She _couldn_ _’t_ imagine. She thought of Dumbledore’s army, about the same size, being decimated and then some in the span of a few months. It was too ghastly to contemplate. “I’m a little surprised you even took a photo,” she said absently.

“Dumbledore insisted on it. He said we should preserve something for posterity. It was a little unsafe, but we kept them in a safe place—places Voldemort wouldn’t find them unless we’d already lost.”

She thought of the D.A. contract, hidden away where no one would look for it. Perhaps Dumbledore’s idea _was_ a good one…

* * *

Harry was hurrying after Ron to lunch when his bag ripped open, spilling his books all over the floor. Why his bag should suddenly rip open for no reason, he couldn’t guess, until he heard a voice as he was picking his things up.

“Need some help?”

He looked up in surprise at the unfamiliar voice and was surprised to see a blond girl in Slytherin robes helping pick up his books for him. “Greengrass?” he said.

“Potter,” she replied.

His mind clicked. “What was that for?” he demanded.

“I’m a Slytherin, Potter. I needed to talk to you without witnesses around if I don’t want to get called out.”

Harry automatically drew his wand on her.

“Not like that,” she said, rolling her eyes. She pointed her own wand at his bag and cast, _“Reparo._ See? No harm done. Now, if you have a minute?”

Harry remembered Hermione’s words to him over the holidays. He could guess that’s what this was about…unless it was an elaborate trap. He followed Greengrass to an empty classroom, though he kept his wand out and ready. Sure enough, her friend, Davis, was there, waiting for them.

“Hello, Potter,” she said.

“Davis,” he replied warily.

“We’ll make this quick, Potter,” Greengrass said. “We—Tracey especially, but me too—are concerned about performing well on our Defence O.W.L.s this spring. The teaching this year has been awful. Your friend, Granger, told us you might be able to do something about that?”

That was what he had expected. He lowered his wand partway. “Maybe I can, Greengrass. What were you thinking I could do?”

“Maybe a study group?” Davis said. “That’s what I was hoping…” She trailed off.

Harry regarded the two girls carefully. It was exactly what Hermione had said. But they hadn’t signed the contract yet. He’d have to be careful about what he said to them. “You know Umbridge could expel you for that, right?” he probed.

“But you’re keeping it secret, aren’t you?” Davis said.

“Yes…hypothetically, that is. If you want to know anything, you have to sign a magical contract to keep it secret.”

“A contract?” Daphne’s suspicions were instantly twinged. “What kind of contract? What does it do?”

“Apparently, gives you incurable acne if you tell. It’s supposed to spell _‘SNEAK’_ across your face.”

The girls flinched and looked at each other. “We’d have to read it in full,” Greengrass said.

“Hermione has it. She can get it to me without being intercepted, but I’ll need a couple days. Meet me…hm…” He couldn’t just tell them to come early to the next D.A. meeting. He wasn’t sure if they’d sign.

Davis sighed loudly at his indecision. “Gryffindors,” she grumbled. “Potter, if you want to arrange a secret meeting, just ‘accidentally’ bump into me in the library and slip a note with the time and place into my hand.”

“What?” he said in confusion.

“That’s clearly the best way. It’s hidden in plain sight, we still look like we hate each other, but it’s in a location where we can’t hex each other over it like we would otherwise. Got it?”

That…that actually made sense to Harry…He’d still probably run it by Hermione though the next time he spoke to her. “Okay, I’ll get that to you soon,” he agreed.

* * *

“So let me get this straight,” Dad said. “In the span of a week, you came up with a PVC pipe, some pieces of lumber, your Omnioculars, and some homemade _bullets_?”

“Not really bullets,” Hermione corrected, “just some lead slugs that are about the same size and shape. It doesn’t need to be exact. I leached all the lead out of the soil in the backyard last night to make them.”

“I still can’t get over how normal you sound when you say things like that…So how does this thing work?”

“It’s pretty simple. I’ve carved some runes into the pipe that will accelerate the slug down its length—just a few for now. They’ll keep it to pretty low speeds. The wood makes a crude frame into which I’ve carved more runes to put up several magical shields in a row to slow down and catch the slugs like a backstop. We use the same technique to catch spells in flight in experimental spellcrafting. I’ll enchant the slug to glow and set the Omnioculars up on a tripod to film the experiment. Then, I’ll be able to re-watch it in slow motion to measure the speed.”

“And you can do all that without breaking the underage magic restriction?” Dad clarified.

“Sure. It’s just a matter of charging up the runes, and I’ve never had any trouble with my homemade wands. Though if I start burning through too many of them, I’ll be out of luck. But with the slug glowing, I can do it in the basement. I won’t need outdoor lighting.”

“And you’re sure the backstop will work?”

“Not at speed, yet, but that’s why I’m testing it at low speeds first. I don’t really know what the limits of the runes are.”

“Ahem,” Mum spoke up. “And we won’t have the police showing up because people heard gunshots?”

“Of course not, Mum. I mean, I can’t guarantee what will happen if and when I break the sound barrier, but it won’t be nearly as loud as a gunpowder explosion.”

Mum and Dad stepped away and consulted with each other for a few minutes. Hermione could understand. This was well outside their comfort zone. She wondered what it said about her that it wasn’t out of _hers_. She’d done so many wild things already—making a stun grenade by leaching magnesium from the soil was only the flashiest of them—no pun intended. She felt like she had more of a witch’s perspective than a muggle’s on such things anymore. (Though she wouldn’t trust the average wizard with a gun as far as she could throw him.)

Her parents came back, and Dad said, “We can’t believe we’re saying this, Hermione, but go ahead and try it out. It _does_ sound like an interesting experiment, and it could be useful.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She had set up her experiment on an improvised rig made of several pieces of furniture in the basement. The pipe, or barrel, was resting on a table, and the frame that made up the backstop was propped up on the seat of a beat-up overstuffed chair that they were probably going to get rid of anyway. There was exactly twenty feet between the end of the barrel and the backstop. Her Omnioculars were set on a camera tripod, and she started them recording.

“Magical rifle experiment number one,” she narrated. She walked over to the backstop in a careful procedure and tapped a homemade wand to the runes. “I’m charging the runes with a homemade wand, which should hopefully stand up to enough use to get through these experiments.” A minute later, she said, “Backstop ready.” She moved behind the pipe and repeated the process. “Barrel ready,” she said. She picked up a lead slug and tapped it with her wand. It glowed brightly. “Loading the slug.” She fed the slug into the pipe and tapped the appropriate sequence of runes. “Fire in the hole.”

With one last tap, the slug flew across the room, a bright, white light crossing the distance almost too fast to see. There was a flicker of light as it struck the magical backstop and froze in midair.

“Success!”

“Wow,” Mum and Dad said, and Dad added, “That was faster than I expected.”

“No faster than a strong bowler could throw it,” Hermione insisted. She turned off the Omnioculars recording and looked through them to see the playback in slow motion. At one-tenth speed, the slowest setting, the slug appeared to take more than a second to cross the twenty feet. “There it is. Around a hundred and fifty feet per second. I’ll need a stopwatch to time it more accurately.” She measured how far the slug had travelled through the backstop shields and checked the charge on the runes and took down the rig.

“Great,” she concluded. “Now I just need to carve some more runes.”

“Wow, just when I get used to magic, I see something that completely blows me away,” Mum said.

“Yeah, I feel the same way sometimes,” Hermione agreed.

“I still think that thing is kind of scary.”

“Trust me, Mum, I’ve seen much worse.”

Mum opened her mouth, but thought better of it: “No, I don’t want to know.”

Hermione giggled. “Oh, by the way,” she said. “There’s a…er, a meeting at Hogwarts on Saturday night. I…I need to be vague about it—but for a good reason, though—it has to do with Harry learning Defence. And it’s not critical that I be there, but it would really be a big help.”

“A ‘meeting’? Didn’t you say they banned all new clubs?” Mum said shrewdly, growing more serious.

“Yes, they did.”

“So just what have you been up to, young lady?”

“Look, Mum, Dad, it’s probably best if you don’t know too many details. It wasn’t dangerous or anything, and it was all about people learning how to defend themselves when they otherwise couldn’t have. I know I’m out of school now, but if too much got out, it could cause trouble for some other people.”

“You know we don’t like you keeping secrets from us, Hermione,” Dad said.

“Yes, Dad, I know. And I don’t want to keep secrets from you, but with so many enemies around, it can be dangerous sometimes if certain information gets out. This _is_ war right now, and even though I’m not involved directly, Harry _is_ , and I have to take that into account.”

“That doesn’t instill us with confidence,” he replied.

“I know it doesn’t. But this is still school stuff. I told you about Umbridge and how she’s deliberately sabotaging our education. If we want to stop her, we need to…go outside the normal channels.”

“Hermione,” Mum said softly. “We understand you feel strongly about this, and yes, it _is_ important…So I just have two questions for you.”

“Okay?”

“Will this ‘meeting’ be dangerous?”

“No more than going to my lessons at Headquarters.”

“Will it involve anything illegal?”

“No,” Hermione said. “I promise it’s nothing illegal.” _Skirting the edges of the law, but not illegal._ “I can visit Hogwarts at Professor Dumbledore’s discretion, and I have transportation available. The worst they can do is ban me from the castle.”

Mum sighed and cupped her cheek. “What happened to our sweet, bright-eyed little girl?”

“I still try, Mum,” she said. “It’s just getting harder.”

“We know, sweetie. You’re just growing up so fast—faster than you should have to.” Her parents both hugged her tight, and Mum said, “Go get ‘em.”

* * *

_“Legilimens!”_

Potter fought the spell with all the techniques he knew—clearing his mind, mantras, visualisation, Granger’s arithmancy tables, and so on. Severus Snape wasn’t about to make it easy for him, though. He’d been hitting the boy even harder than he had in their early lessons. The Dark Lord wanted him to wear Potter down, and Albus wanted him to go along with it as the lesser of two evils. Severus didn’t need to be told twice to stick it to Potter, but the brat was becoming annoyingly resistant.

Naturally, Severus got through, though it was after a minute or two of forceful attacks. When he did get into his memories, Potter tried the redirection technique. Granger had apparently told him about it a few days ago. He’d had time to practice it properly, and he was doing better, as much as Severus was loathe to admit it. The boy tried to focus on his memories of Quidditch, but then decided against it—too many bad memories of being banned by the High Inquisitor. He tried his Transfiguration and Arithmancy lessons. Those memories were low-value and didn’t have strong emotional associations that could be dangerous. He wasn’t completely successful, but he did better than last time.

“Well, it seems you’re not completely hopeless after all, Potter,” Snape growled. “Somehow, your insufferable know-it-all friend has hit upon quite a lot of useful advice by sheer dumb luck.” That was a lie, of course. Snape could tell that Potter’s Occlumency technique had Albus’s fingerprints all over it, even second-hand. What was his game? He was making it that much harder for him.

Potter glared at him, no doubt offended by his (completely accurate) description of Granger. “It seems improbable, don’t you think, Potter? Occlumency is an obscure and difficult branch of magic, and yet, Granger has stumbled upon good techniques from a few references and some muggle books.”

Maybe that would make Potter give up a clue. The Dark Lord had been unhappy with Potter’s progress in Occlumency. He had tried to turn Nagini’s failure to retrieve the prophecy to his advantage by influencing Potter to reject Occlumency in favour of learning more about his plans, but Granger had taken the boy to task for that, too. A direct question might turn up information that Severus had missed rummaging through the boy’s memories.

Unfortunately, Potter just shrugged cluelessly and said, “She’s Hermione. That’s what she does.”

No luck. Potter might be an improving Occlumens, but he was still a terrible liar, and this wasn’t a lie. Severus could tell the boy didn’t know any more than he did, and maybe even less. Severus could guess the truth, though. Albus was teaching Granger Occlumency personally and having her teach Potter under the guise of using uninformed muggle techniques. It was good for Potter, but it was bad for himself. He’d have to pin it all on the “know-it-all mudblood” to get away with it, and even that might not be enough. Rookwood said that only Potter and the the Dark Lord could retrieve the prophecy, and the Dark Lord’s window for tricking Potter into doing it was closing. Severus didn’t know what would happen then, but he was sure it wouldn’t be good for him.

“Continue practising, Potter,” he said. “You have made…surprising progress, but don’t get cocky.”

“Yes, sir.”

* * *

Hermione took the Knight Bus Saturday night to Hogsmeade where, as a personal favour to Professor Slughorn, Ambrosius Flume had agreed to keep Honeydukes open late for her to get in and out. As a thank you, she also bought some chocolate while she was there. Honeydukes had a lot of magical and, to muggle eyes, gimmicky sorts of candy, but Hermione’s tastes were more understated than that. As a dentists’ daughter, she had cultivated a taste for richer and less sweet desserts, and Mr. Flume had just the thing: Honeydukes 77% Cacao Extra Dark Chocolate Bars. Mr. Flume sold 88% and even 99% bars, but these were the perfect blend of bittersweet for her. She stocked up on them and descended to the cellar.

At her request, George and Fred had placed a broomstick from the school’s broom shed at the Honeydukes end of the secret passageway. Hermione wasn’t stellar on a broom. In fact, she’d brought a bicycle helmet with her because she was worried about flying in the confined space. But she could fly well enough to turn an hour-long walk into a fifteen minute flight, even in the twisting and turning tunnel. That was critical since her parents didn’t want her out too late. A little while later, she left the broom and her helmet behind the statue of the One-Eyed Witch and navigated to the Room of Requirement using the Mathemagician’s Map.

Hermione had sent Dobby to Harry with the D.A. contract for Greengrass and Davis to sign. Dobby reported back to her when he returned it that they had been sceptical, but had gone ahead and signed it after reading it, mostly at Davis’s urging. She wasn’t sure how the rest of the D.A. would take it. They’d got on well enough with Georgina, but fifth-year Slytherins were different, and she was pretty sure some of the Gryffindors thought of all of them as part of Malfoy’s crowd.

The D.A. filed into the Room a few at a time, as usual. However, this time, Harry came in last, escorting Greengrass and Davis with him. As she’d feared, the reactions were not positive.

“Greengrass and Davis?”

“No way!”

“They’re with Malfoy!”

“No they aren’t!” That was Georgina.

“They’re no-good snakes.”

“HEY!”

“What are they doing here?”

“I invited them.”

They stopped. The voice came from behind the entire group, and it was one they hadn’t expected to hear. They all turned around, and she stepped out of the shadows.

“Hermione!” several of them yelled as they rushed to greet her. George was first, of course. He picked her up, spun her around, and kissed her. Fred wolf-whistled, and George put her down.

“I’m glad to see you, too, Fred, but this is not the time,” she said.

George just grinned and slapped his twin in the back of the head. “What are you doing here, Hermione?” he asked.

“How did you _get_ here?” asked Parvati.

Hermione smiled and said, “You didn’t think Umbridge could scare me away forever, did you? I won’t let someone like her keep me away from the D.A. And as I was saying, I invited Greengrass and Davis to join us because they were worried about passing their O.W.L.s, and anyone who’s against Umbridge is an ally of ours. I said before, ‘She that is not against us is for us.’ And before you ask, Harry made them sign the same contract we all did, so they can’t tell anyone about the D.A.”

“What if they’re Death Eater spies?” Lee Jordan protested. “The contract won’t stop them then.”

Greengrass scoffed loudly. “Honestly, Jordan. My family is neutral and intends to stay that way, thank you very much. Ask Bones, she’ll vouch for us.”

Everyone turned to Susan Bones, who looked shocked at being put on the spot, but she quickly collected herself. “It’s true,” she said. “Greengrass and Davis are the only two Slytherins in fifth year whose parents _aren_ _’t_ on Aunt Amelia’s watch list. They’re not with You-Know-Who…and if they signed the contract, I’m guessing they’re not with Malfoy, either.”

“Exactly,” Greengrass agreed. “So let’s see this meeting of yours.”

Susan’s pronouncement seemed to be enough for most people, so Hermione went ahead and started the meeting. “Okay, I’ve got a new spell for you,” she said.

“One of your inventions?” Colin Creevey said eagerly.

“That’s right. Just a little jinx I came up with.”

Harry coughed behind her. She held up a finger and turned to him.

“Do you need me to leave?” he asked resignedly.

“How were your lessons this week?” she whispered.

“Snape actually complimented me…sorta.”

She decided to take the chance, and she smiled at him: “Stay, then. Alright, we’re ready. Do I have a volunteer to demonstrate?”

Everyone glanced at each other nervously, but then, to her surprise, Neville stepped forward. She hadn’t seen Neville since before the Azkaban breakout, when the other three Death Eaters who had tortured his parents had escaped. He looked different, now. He had already been losing his baby fat and improving his magical skill surprisingly well in the D.A., but now, he looked disturbed, but far more determined—half a soldier where before there had been only an eager student. He looked like Hermione felt these past two weeks, and for similar reasons.

“I’ll do it,” he said. “It’s nothing too bad, is it?”

Hermione raised an eyebrow. “In a controlled setting? Not really.” She pointed her wand at his leg. _“Paraesthesia!”_

Neville yelled as his knee buckled and collapsed hard to the floor, but he struggled back up and held his leg while hopping on one foot. “Ow! Ow! Pins and needles! Pins and needles!”

“There. That simple,” she said, and it really was. The ‘pins and needles’ sensation of an arm or leg falling asleep is caused by sustained pressure on the nerves, which blocks the signals. Channelling this knowledge into a jinx to making it fast acting made for a valuable addition to Hermione’s inventory of incapacitating spells. Strike an opponent’s arm, and their fingers will struggle to obey; strike their leg, and it will not support their weight.

She taught the spell to the D.A., circling the room and giving pointers as they tried it for themselves. Greengrass and Davis, she noticed, were only willing to face off against each other, but at least they weren’t causing any problems. Lee, however, still felt the need to inform them of how Hermione had defeated Seamus in a duel.

“Hey, Hermione, what’s that ring for?” Parvati asked when she got around to her. She pointed to the engraved, gold-plated ring that she now wore on the first finger of her left hand.

“That’s the One Ring,” Hermione said with a smile.

“The what?”

“Nothing. It’s a muggle fantasy story. I just thought it looked cool.”

Parvati gave her a queer look, shrugged, and moved on. The other muggle-borns in the D.A. were interested, though. Hermione was pleased that no one suspected her of anything but being a rabid Tolkien fangirl. But why would they suspect she had placed a Protean Charm on the ring?

The group did pretty well with her spell and with the exercises Harry had prepared. She was pleased with their progress, but she also had other business. As the meeting was winding down, she went up to Colin and Dennis Creevey and said “Company meeting,” and pulled them over to the side of the Room.

“What’s up, Hermione?” Colin said.

“I have a new project for you.” She held up the recording crystal from her Omnioculars. Last year, she had worked with the Creeveys to develop a method to turn Omniocular recordings into wizarding photographs. They had used this method to start a mail-order business called Creevey Bros. Pictures, which paid Hermione a small dividend. “I’m trying to figure out what kinds of magical shields are bulletproof,” she explained. “I can’t use a real gun, so I improvised a magical railgun by carving some runes into a pipe.”

“Awesome!” Colin exclaimed. “You can do that?”

“It’s still in the testing stages, but yes. I took an Omniocular recording of it firing, but it’s too fast to measure the speed. I want you to slow it down past the normal slow-motion setting. Find out what its frame rate is, if it has one, or if it doesn’t, slow it down as much as you can before you can’t see what’s happening. My guess is that it’s holographic, and it’ll just keep getting fuzzier as you slow it. Send the prints back with the group photo.

“Sure thing, Hermione.”

“Yeah, sure thing, Hermione,” Dennis piped up.

“Great. Thanks. You’ve got your camera?”

“Yep,” Colin said.

“Excellent.” She turned back to the group and said, “Listen up, everyone. That looks really good. You all made a lot of progress. Now, before you go, I wanted to do one more thing. I’ve been thinking a lot this week, and I know this is going to sound strange, but how would you feel about taking a group photo?”

Everyone stared at her like she’d just suggested they go storm Umbridge’s office. Actually, that might have been better received.

“You’re kidding, right?” Greengrass said. “Did you suddenly forget the meaning of ‘ _secret_ club’?”

“No, Greengrass. I intend to keep the prints _and_ the negatives hidden outside of Hogwarts where Umbridge can’t find them for the duration.”

“And can we trust you with them?” she pressed.

“Can you trust me not to blab about the D.A. to the _Daily Prophet_?” she retorted. “As a leader on the contract, I can, you know.” There were some uncomfortable murmurs from the group. “But I have as much incentive to keep the secret as you do. More, actually. They can only expel you. Now that I’m out of school, they can accuse me of fomenting insurrection.” _Not legally, but they could do it._ “Still, anyone who doesn’t want to do it can step out.”

“I ain’t doing it,” Seamus said firmly. “Me mam don’t want me associating with Dumbledore’s supporters as it is. I’m not gonna do a photo, too.”

“Where’s this coming from, Hermione?” Harry asked with a hint of concern.

“Some _other_ pictures I saw this week,” she replied. “I can’t give many details, but I learnt that Dumbledore’s _official_ allies took a group photo of themselves in the last war—to record the moment for posterity—to show where they stood when the war was over.” _And remember those they lost_ , she added mentally. “And they were a lot more secretive than we are. Harry’s parents and a lot of their friends were in it. He can vouch for it.”

All eyes turned to Harry. “Well, that’s true,” he said.

“I think I feel something of what they did,” Hermione went on. “Someday, Umbridge will be gone, and we’ll be able to say that _we_ were the ones who defied her.”

Broad grins broke out over most of the group at that image. Many of them agreed readily, then. The three Slytherins were much more reluctant. Daphne also bowed out, but to even her surprise, Tracey looked around and said, “What the hell, go for it. But I want it known that I’m with Dumbledore’s Army against Umbridge. No comment about anything else.”

“Tracey!” Greengrass hissed.

“Daphne?” Davis said defiantly.

The two girls held an intense stare-down, but eventually, Greengrass relented. “Fine, do what you want,” she grumbled, “but if you get yourself killed, I’m gonna resurrect you so I can kill you again.” She stepped away and crossed her arms, and Hermione wondered, not for the first time, what the ‘political’ dynamics were really like in the Slytherin dorms.

“Fair enough,” she said. “Colin are you ready?”

“Almost. Just let me set the timer…”

The rest of the group lined up as he set up his camera on a tripod that the Room helpfully provided. It was too bad they couldn’t get the full group, but Hermione still counted it as a victory that they could get a photo with two Slytherins in it, and one of them a fifth-year. No one could say that Slytherin was a total loss now. She had a feeling they would need that before the war was over.

A few days later, the Creevey Brothers sent her the negatives with a large print that she labelled, _Dumbledore_ _’s Army (against Delores Umbridge), January 1996_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paraesthesia: medical term for “pins and needles” and similar sensations, Greek for “abnormal sensation.” Credit to MuggleCreator for this idea.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling flies at midnight.
> 
> Big thanks to batrax for writing the first ever spin-off fic for the Arithmancer-Verse, exclusively on FFN. It’s called The Love of a Father, and it features Dan taking matters into his own hands to stop Fudge and Umbridge. It’s really good, so go check it out.

“Mrs. Weasley, could I speak with you privately?”

Hermione had got right to work the next time she went to Grimmauld Place for her lessons. Specifically, it was time to start giving out her enchanted rings.

“Of course, Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley said. It was just after lunch, and they both had a little spare time. The house was crowded, as usual, but after thinking for a minute, she led Hermione up to her and Mr. Weasley’s bedroom. It was naturally tidy, and there were a couple of chairs to sit in, but it still made Hermione all the more uncomfortable for it.

“Mrs. Weasley, I wanted to speak with you and your husband together, but I don’t really have time,” Hermione said. “It would be more appropriate to talk to both of you together, but—”

“Hermione, is something wrong?” she asked.

“No, no, not at all. I have something I wanted to give to you, but it’s more something that the two of you should talk about together. You see, I…I was worried about what happened at Christmas—Mr. Weasley was attacked, and he couldn’t call for help. It was just luck that Harry saw him, and he really wasn’t supposed to. It was really just luck that anyone found him.”

Mrs. Weasley nodded sadly. “Oh, it was terrible. I don’t know what I would have done…”

“Well, I was worried about the fact that he couldn’t call for help,” she said, “so I worked out a way for people to send messages without being noticed.”

The woman’s eyes widened. “Well…that’s very thoughtful of you, Hermione, but the Order _does_ have a way to send messages discreetly,” she said.

“They do?” she said in surprise. “Er, I don’t mean to be rude, but why didn’t Mr. Weasley use it, then?”

“It’s a…rather difficult spell,” she said hesitantly. “He wasn’t able to do it when he was injured.”

“What spell is it?” Hermione couldn’t think of any such off the top of her head.

“I don’t know if I should…It’s really only supposed to be for Order members.”

Of course it was. That was sensible, but they really ought to be willing to tell people like her and the Weasleys’ children who might as well be members at this point. Oh, well, at least she had an answer for herself: “Actually, Mrs. Weasley, Professor Dumbledore does have me doing some work for the Order.” Mrs. Weasley looked horrified by the notion, so she clarified, “Nothing dangerous, of course. No guard duty or anything like that. Just a couple of academically-oriented projects that I could do from the safety of Hogwarts—or my home, now.”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Weasley said uncomfortably. “But he hasn’t told you about that spell?”

“No.”

She sighed and said, “I’m still not sure if I should be telling you…but it’s a spell you would be good at. I thought he might have told you. You see, it’s a variation on the Patronus Charm that can carry a message with your voice. It’s impossible to fake, and dark wizards can’t even cast it, so it’s perfect for our use.”

 _If there_ _’s a way to convincingly imitate a Patronus in general, it can probably be faked_ , Hermione thought. “Except for the fact that it’s very difficult to cast,” she replied. But she definitely wanted to learn the spell nonetheless. “I came up with something much easier and still practically untraceable…I thought it would be good to have.”

That certainly got her attention. “Truly, Hermione?” she said. “I know you’re brilliant, but you think you developed a better spell than Professor Dumbledore?”

She shook her head: “It wasn’t my spell. And it wasn’t that hard either. It’s the same spell that’s on Sirius’s and Harry’s mirrors, and they seem to think those are secure enough.”

“Ah. I suppose if they think so…So what is it? Another mirror?”

“Nothing so obvious,” Mrs. Weasley. “You see this ring?” Hermione held up her left hand, showing the ring on her index finger. “I put a Protean Charm on it.” She tapped the ring with her wand, and the “Elvish” letters glowed. Then, she used the butt end of her wand to quickly tap out a message on it, changing the script to English letters: _THE EAGLE FLIES AT MIDNIGHT._

“What does _that_ mean?” Mrs. Weasley asked. “And what were those runes? I’ve never seen anything like them.”

“They’re both muggle jokes. They’re not important. The point is, they can send messages securely, and it’s easier and less conspicuous than casting a Patronus.” She pulled two more rings from her pocket and held them out to her. Both were glowing with the same message.

Mrs. Weasley took the rings and examined them. “That is…very clever, Hermione. Have you shown these to Professor Dumbledore?”

“No, and frankly, I don’t intend to.”

She frowned deeply. “Why not?”

“Because I’d really like to keep this separate from the Order.”

“Why? Don’t you trust Professor Dumbledore?”

“Not after what happened to Sturgis Podmore,” she snapped angrily. Mrs. Weasley recoiled in horror. Hermione backed off: “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. That just hit me hard when it happened. I trust Professor Dumbledore’s motives, of course, but I disagree with his actions. And I’ve spoken to him personally about it. I’m doing work for the Order, but he understands I’m also doing my own thing—within my means, of course.” That wasn’t exactly true, but Dumbledore probably guessed as much. “I’m just not willing to rely solely on him anymore. These rings will give you an alternate way to call for help. You see, if Sturgis Podmore had had one of these rings, maybe he’d still be alive right now. And if Mr. Weasley had had one, maybe he wouldn’t have had to rely on Harry’s insane luck.”

Hermione could tell Mrs. Weasley was unhappy with the arrangement, but she was sure she could understand the logic. “I suppose you’re right about that,” she admitted, nodding her head. “Honestly, it did worry me, what happened to Sturgis—just being sent to Azkaban was bad enough, and then…So who _have_ you shown these to?”

“You’re the first. I’m only going to give them to people I personally know and trust. I want you and Mr. Weasley to have those two. They’re plated, not solid, so you’ll be able to resize them easily. I’m going to give them to Sirius and Remus, and I have another two for Fred and George when they graduate.”

“You make it sound like you’re trying to build a group of your own,” Mrs. Weasley said shrewdly.

“Not really. These are just to call for help…” She smiled a little: “I did think of a name, though, if I have a reason for one. It’s the—” She stopped and chided herself. The Council of Elrond was completely the wrong Tolkien reference for this. “—the White Council,” she finished.

“Well…be that as it may, how do these rings work?” Mrs. Weasley replied.

“It’s a bit limited. The downside of the Protean Charm is that it’s one to many and many to one. You can send _me_ a message, but nobody else. I can send a message to all the rings, and that’s it. So if you’re in trouble, you’ll need to send a message to me, and I’ll relay it to the others.”

Mrs. Weasley frowned again. “Are you sure you should be wearing the master ring, then, Hermione? I certainly don’t expect you to come to the rescue.”

“I wouldn’t need to. I’d just serve as the dispatcher, to alert the others. I can send and receive messages from anywhere. And it’s not like I’m going to be running into danger anytime soon that something could happen to the master ring.”

Mrs. Weasley sighed: “Alright, then. Thank you, Hermione. I’m not sure it’s the best way, but I know I’ll feel with if Arthur has one of these. How do I send a message?”

“Do you know Morse code?”

“The what code?”

“Never mind. They also respond to the prisoner’s tap code. Here’s how it works…”

* * *

_Hermione Granger, Arithmancy Mastery student under Septima Vector,_

_To David Anderson, President of the MACUSA Arithmancy Society_

_Dear Mr. Anderson,_

_Thank you for following up on our meeting last month. I_ _’m afraid I’ve been rather busy with the political situation here in Britain. I appreciate your efforts to relocate_ _ Annals of Arithmancy _ _to America. Despite my personal patriotism, right now, I_ _’m of the mind that anything that shows that certain local interests that they are not all-powerful is a good thing. I’m confident that relocating would allow_ _ Annals of Arithmancy _ _greater journalistic integrity and press freedom in the next several years and possibly longer, and you have my full support._

_However, I wanted to contact you regarding a possible collaborative Arithmancy project I have planned, possibly as my Master_ _’s thesis. You have read my recent proof with Septima Vector and Rebecca Gamp of the non-transfigurability of radioactive materials. I would like to extend this work to antimatter. If you are unfamiliar with the term, antimatter is a substance that is identical to normal matter, except that the fundamental particles have the opposite electric charges. Muggle scientists are familiar with antimatter and are able to generate microscopic amounts of it in their laboratories. You may contact any major laboratory for more information._

_Of greatest concern is that when antimatter comes into direct contact with normal matter, they annihilate each other, resulting in an enormous release of energy, even greater than in muggle nuclear weapons. This is why I very much hope that we can prove that antimatter is not transfigurable. The problems inherent if it were possible would be similar, but even greater than those that would occur if it were possible to build nuclear weapons with magic. Indeed, it is the antimatter problem that led me to my work on radioactive material in the first place, and I hope that you can lend your expertise to the subject._

_I have enclosed my notes to date on this topic for your examination. The proof I have in mind must needs be more theoretical than the previous one. I believe that similar methods will be needed, but there is little, if any, practical experimentation that can be done, and the mathematics needed to describe antimatter is considerably more advanced than that needed for radioactive decay. If you require additional explanation, I can point you to several muggle sources on the maths involved. I look forward to our prospective collaboration._

_Sincerely,_

_Hermione Jean Granger_

 

“I haven’t heard back yet, but he seemed really interested in my work when we met at the awards ceremony.” Hermione told Septima in their next meeting when she showed her a copy of her letter.

“I know Anderson,” Septima said. “He’s good. He’s probably one of the few people in the world who understood your proof. And the MACUSA Arithmancy Society probably has the influence to get _Annals of Arithmancy_ to move, especially after the scene Rebecca made. Although I wouldn’t be so sure about making this your Master’s thesis.”

“Why not?”

“I think it would be too esoteric for most people. If the Wizarding Examinations Authority can’t understand what you did, they won’t be keen to give you your certification.”

“Oh.”

“Now, this fractal geometry you’re studying looks very interesting. I’m starting to understand the appeal, now that I’ve got past the mad infinities. Although I have to wonder. You said fractal geometry is mainly a subject of the complex analysis you’re studying now?”

“That’s right.”

“But you showed me fractals before that only used real analysis or geometry.”

“Yes, but the most mathematically-significant fractals use complex analysis. And I wish I had better pictures for you. Muggle computers are just beginning to be good enough to draw these things.”

“What you have here is beautiful,” Septima replied, motioning to the multicoloured prints of the Mandelbrot set. “Now, this here might not be the most practical place to start. I think that a study of the applications of self-similarity to spell creation—and maybe to runes—would be very promising. And if it pays off, the fractals you’ve shown me are diverse enough that it could be enough for a whole thesis.”

Hermione hadn’t thought of that before. What could she do with fractals in spell creation? Casting multiple spells at once? Some kind of cluster bomb curse? “That could be really interesting,” she said. “Where do you think we should start?”

Septima rose from her seat and started writing on her personal blackboard. “The key is that with self-similarity, you can define an infinite construction with a closed-form rule, even if it has to be iterated. Now that I’ve wrapped my mind around it, it’s not too different from what we do with power series. We should pick a few simple spell elements and see if we can come up with something analogous that’s still castable—”

Unfortunately, just as they were about to get started, Hermione heard one of the most unwelcome sounds imaginable.

“ _Hem hem._ ”

Dolores Umbridge stood in Septima’s doorway. How had she even got in? Actually, never mind. It probably wouldn’t be that hard to get around Bridget Wenlock if you were as devious as she. Hermione had flashbacks to her detentions just looking at her. She subtly hid her letter while Septima spoke.

“Dolores, what a surprise,” she said. “I could have sworn I’d left the door closed.”

Umbridge pointedly avoided that remark. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Professor Vector.” She wasn’t. “But may I ask what you are doing?”

Septima took on a more formal pose. “I’m teaching, Professor Umbridge,” she said.

“Teaching what?”

“Advanced Arithmancy, if you must know.”

“Oh, no, no, no. This will not do,” Umbridge said with her poisoned-honey grin. “Surely, you haven’t forgotten Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six—”

“‘Teachers are banned from giving students any information that is not strictly related to the subjects they are paid to teach,’” Septima quoted in a bored tone. “But regardless of what I think of that as a pedagogical practice, it doesn’t apply in this case.”

“It most certainly does. All teachers and all students are covered regardless of where they are enrolled.”

“That’s not what I meant, Professor Umbridge.”

“Oh? And what _did_ you mean?”

“I mean that I _am_ being paid to teach this class.”

“What on earth do you mean? Advanced Arithmancy isn’t on the syllabus. Paid by whom?”

“I’m paying Professor Vector a sickle per week to teach me Advanced Arithmancy,” Hermione spoke up.

“ _You_ , Miss Granger?” Umbridge’s grin cracked into a scowl. “But your education—”

“I am receiving a full, accredited education from Horace Slughorn, Professor Umbridge,” she replied. “However, there is no law preventing me from taking additional, private classes, and Educational Decree Number Twenty-Six doesn’t bar Professor Vector from teaching them.”

Septima shot a grin back at Umbridge and motioned to Hermione: “What she said.”

“ _Well_ ,” Umbridge huffed, “you may rest assured, Professor Vector, that as High Inquisitor, I will be reviewing this new development _very_ carefully.”

“I look forward to it, Dolores.”

Umbridge stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

“Well, that’s got her out of our hair for another week,” Septima said. “Now, let’s start looking at self-similarity, shall we?”

* * *

Unfortunately, it really was only that week that Umbridge was out of their hair. The next time Hermione saw Harry at the D.A., he showed her the latest development.

“Did you see this, Hermione?” he said, and holding up a sheet of parchment.

“What is it?”

“New Educational Decree. It showed up on Monday, but I don’t see the point.”

Hermione took the parchment and read it off:

 

_By Order of The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_

_Teachers employed by Hogwarts may not teach any subject that is outside of the Ministry of Magic_ _’s secondary education curriculum, nor outside of the class schedule assigned them by the school administration._

_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Seven._

_Signed by:_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_High Inquisitor_

 

“I don’t believe it!” Hermione said. “She wrote a whole new decree just for me?”

“That was for you?”

“Yes, I was paying Septima to teach me Advanced Arithmancy, and she caught us. I told her she didn’t have a leg to stand on, and then she did this.”

“Wow. She must really not want you in the castle,” Harry said.

“Or she really doesn’t like losing. Actually, come to think of it, she’s probably still sore about what Rebecca did at the prize ceremony. This hits her Independent Study, too. Hm…I’ll need to think of a new plan.”

“Yeah, that’s fine for you,” he grumbled. “The new decree bans ‘Remedial Potions’, too, so Snape changed my Occlumency lessons to detentions.”

“Oh…sorry, Harry.”

Harry was annoyed, but Snape detentions were something he could deal with, especially fake ones. The D.A. was actually going pretty smoothly tonight. Everyone was learning the spells they _should_ have been learning in class for the past four and a half years, and people were mostly getting along, even with Greengrass and Davis. Seamus Finnigan still looked disgruntled, but he was still showing up, at least.

The interesting bit came when they were finishing up, and Georgina stopped to talk to Hermione and Greengrass together, much to Hermione’s surprise.

“So, Hermione, Daphne,” Georgina asked when she spoke to her, “do you think we can bring Astoria into the group?”

“Astroria? I don’t think so—” Daphne said.

“But Daphne, she’s my best friend, and I want her to learn this, too.”

Oh, that was right, Hermione remembered. Georgina was friends with Daphne’s little sister. “If she’ll sign the contract, it’s fine by me,” she answered. “Harry?”

“Huh? Oh, I guess it’s alright,” he said.

Daphne sighed: “She’s only a third year, Granger.”

“Excuse me!” the second-year Georgina spoke up.

“You know what I mean, Georgina. And you know her situation is different,” Daphne added in a lower voice.

“I can work with her. It won’t be that hard for her.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what they were talking about, although she did know there were quite a few younger siblings who were deliberately not being included in the meetings. “Well, you can forbid her if you want, Greengrass,” she said, “but we’re okay with it.”

“She should be able to defend herself the best she can, Daphne,” Georgina said. “And I know she wants to do it, too.”

“Hmpf, I’ll think about it, then, but just for her sake.”

Not to be outdone, Anthony Goldstein came up to Harry after that and said he thought Terry Boot and Michael Corner would be interested in the group. Parvati was still working on Lavender. So it wasn’t much, but Hermione thought they’d made another step towards being a well-rounded group.

* * *

Hermione had added more and more runes to her magical railgun with just as many also added to her bullet-catcher to keep from shooting through her basement wall. It was an increasingly large amount of work to increase the speed. Energy was proportional to the square of the velocity, after all. By now, just charging the runes took a serious effort, but she’d have to tie them into the ley lines or learn a lot more runes if she wanted much more power than that, and she wasn’t at that level yet. She’d probably have to forgo the rifle rounds for now, but she could at least work her way up to the most powerful handgun rounds in the world. That was the .44 Magnum—or so said Dirty Harry. A check at the library told her that to match that power, her railgun would need to fire a twenty-two gram slug at fourteen hundred feet per second.

The Creevey Brothers had developed her previous pictures with encouraging results. As she had expected the Omnioculars crystals stored video holographically, so frame rate was not a concern in slowing it down. At about a hundredth of normal speed, they said, the video just became too fuzzy to make out, and that was slow enough for her to actually measure fourteen hundred feet per second.

“You _do_ realise you’ve built a working high-powered handgun in our basement, right, Hermione?” her dad said. “That’s not normal.”

She rolled her eyes. “Dad, when have I ever been normal?”

“It’s not safe,” Mum said. “I know it’s working now, but if you actually try it on shields, what about ricochets?”

“Once I can dial in the speed, I’ll move the barrel closer to the target and build more shields around the entire testing chamber. It’ll be fine.”

“Well…if you’re sure,” she said.

“It won’t be any more trouble than what I’ve done already.” Hermione checked the setup and started the Omniocular recording. “Experiment number seventeen, emulating a .44 Magnum round…” she said. “Fire in the hole.”

She touched the activation rune and there was a bright flash that seemed to come from the barrel and the backstop simultaneously, and a crack as the slug broke the sound barrier. But when the dust cleared, it had been caught firmly by the magical backstop.

“Well, it works,” she said. “That’s all I can do for now. I’ll need to get the next batch of pictures developed before moving on.”

That rather relieved her parents for the moment. She packed up her equipment, and they went about their business, but just a few minutes later, there was a knock on the front door, and to the Grangers’ surprise, a man who was recognisably dressed as a wizard was standing outside.

“Can we help you?” Dan asked.

“Are you Mr. Granger?”

“I am,” he said cautiously.

“I’m Arnold Peasegood from the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. We detected a large discharge of accidental magic at this location not long ago, and we wanted to check it out to see if you needed any help. Is your daughter at home?”

“Yes, she is. Hermione?”

Hermione’s heart was racing. The Accidental Magic Reversal Squad? Merlin’s pants! They’d detected what she was doing. She should have known throwing this much magic around in a muggle house would get her in trouble, even if it didn’t trip the Trace. Her eyes darted around the room, and she quickly hid her homemade wands under a sofa cushion before going to the door.

“Yes, Dad?” she said.

Peasegood looked surprised when he saw her. “Are you Hermione Granger?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. Is something wrong?” she said.

“We picked up a large surge of accidental magic from you, Miss Granger. Is everything okay here?”

“Oh, yes, yes, we’re fine,” she said with an air of someone who was tired out and relieved that things were sorted.

“Are you alright, Miss Granger? Accidental magic is very unusual at your age.”

“Yes, I’m fine, Mr. Peasegood,” she said with a dramatic sigh. “I’ve just been under a lot of stress lately. You see, I had to start a new tutoring program last month, and…well, it’s not important. I was in the basement when it happened, so no one saw it, and most of the energy went into the wall.”

“Er…yes,” her dad thankfully caught on. “She made the lights flicker up here, but she didn’t crack the foundation, thank goodness. No harm done.”

“Are you sure about that, Mr. Granger?” The wizard edged forward as if to come inside. “If you need any assistance at all—”

“We know how to find you,” Dad cut him off. “Thank you for your concern, but we don’t need any help, and Hermione’s doing alright for now.”

“Ah…well, then, thank you for your time.” Peasegood turned and Apparated away.

Dad closed the door, and then both of Hermione’s parents turned on her. “What was _that_ about?” he said. “I thought you said you wouldn’t get in trouble with those wands you made with your hair or something like that.”

“And I didn’t,” she insisted. “If I’d used my regular wands, it would have been someone from the Improper Use of Magic Office. They think this was just an accident. The wands that use my own hair register as accidental magic, but it looks like that last experiment used enough of it that it tripped their detectors.”

“So you’re not in trouble?” he clarified.

“No, but I can’t do much magic here anymore without raising suspicion. If it was enough to send someone out here, I’m sure it’ll get back to Umbridge sooner or later—oh, no…Umbridge. I’ll bet anything she told the Ministry to monitor me extra-closely for any trouble-making, especially after that last Educational Decree.”

“Why? To slow down your work?”

“No, spite. That was pure spite,” Hermione said. “No, scratch that. It was a _warning_. She’s saying, ‘I’m still watching you.’ She’s telling me I can’t bend the rules like I have been, and I have to be a good little witch and not work against her.”

“Is that a problem for your tutoring?” Mum asked with concern.

“No, that’s fine. Headquarters is under Fidelius. They _can_ _’t_ monitor me there. I’ll just have to move the experiments I can there—not this one, probably, but some of the others I might be able to.”

“Just as long as you’re careful. You’re the one who told us how bad that woman is. Maybe you should stop your seminar with Septima.”

“No, Mum, don’t worry. I’ve got a _plan_ for that.”

* * *

“Hermione, I’m not sure if you saw the new Educational Decree—” Septima.

“I did, Septima. But that’s not why I’m here.”

“It’s not?”

“No. I was wondering if you would be interested in a new class I’m teaching called Advanced Topics in Mathematics. You see, I checked, and classes that aren’t accredited by the Ministry don’t require a teaching certificate. Class starts right now, and tuition is one sickle per week.”

Septima gaped for a moment, then laughed loudly. “Hermione, I know you don’t like defining people by their houses, but the sheer Gryffindor audacity of that plan is brilliant.”

* * *

_“Legilimens!”_

By mid-February, Hermione’s Occlumency lessons were going much better. Professor Dumbledore had been rougher with her the past few weeks so that she would be prepared for a tougher assault from a Death Eater, but she was still keeping him out of her mind. She wasn’t perfect by any means, but she was good enough that she could block him long enough to react and do something to break eye contact.

“I must admit, Hermione, I am very impressed with your progress,” he said. “In fact, I think it is time that we concluded these lessons. You could improve further, of course, but you are proficient enough now to keep your own secrets against anyone you are likely to encounter day to day, and to help Harry to where he needs to be. Professor Snape has said, though not in so many words, that he has made progress as well.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said sincerely. That was one less thing to worry about, especially since she was on thin ice with Umbridge. “So now what do we do? I can still do more work for the Order,” she offered. She wondered if Mr. or Mrs. Weasley or Sirius or Remus had told him about the rings, though she still didn’t plan to mention it herself.

If Dumbledore knew, he didn’t mention it. “You may recall I asked you to become close with Professor Slughorn,” he said. “How is that going?”

“He seems to like me. He’s been impressed with my work, says I’ll do great things. He’s…rather informal for a professor,” she said hesitantly. “Why?”

“I believe you know that Professor Slughorn taught Voldemort when he was a student. The young Tom Riddle was part of his house and was one of his ‘favourites’. I believe that Professor Slughorn knows certain information about Voldemort’s past that may be key to defeating him.”

That sounded a little…odd. “What, you mean like what his One True Weakness is, Professor? Or more like where all his secret hideouts are?”

Dumbledore smiled: “It may be closer to the first one than you think, Hermione. I will have more details for you at a later date. I am still investigating for myself. But I urge you to be cautious in approaching Professor Slughorn about this matter. He was very guarded when I spoke to him, and I would not want you to hurt your relationship with him. I know that you need to stay enrolled with him until your next birthday.”

“Unless we get lucky and get rid of Umbridge at the end of the year like all the other Defence Professors,” she countered.

“That _would_ be convenient, wouldn’t it? But alas, the power of a stubborn politician with influence in the press is too great to discount.”

“Yes, the press,” she grumbled. Then it hit her. “The _press_ _…_ ”

“Yes?”

“Just an idea, Professor. I need to go.” _And write to a certain reporter whom I_ _’ve still got by the antennae for another four months._ She hurried to the door, but she stopped for one last question: “Professor, I’m sorry if I was intruding, but I was talking to…the people at Headquarters, and they said that you invented a spell for the Order to communicate secretly?”

Dumbledore’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I am surprised someone told you that, Hermione…but I suppose it’s no great risk. It is a variation on the Patronus Charm that can carry a message. I could teach it to you if you like, but Remus is perfectly capable, and I think that would be more convenient for you.”

“Thank you, Professor. So it’s secure?”

“Yes. You cannot fake someone’s Patronus, Hermione,” he said.

She nodded and walked out the door, still doubtful of his claim.

* * *

Somewhat to Hermione’s surprise, Harry contacted her through Sirius’s mirror and told her that Astroria Greengrass would be coming to the next D.A. meeting. Hermione couldn’t make it to every meeting, but she made an effort to attend this one to help smooth things over. Astoria looked a lot like a younger version of Daphne, but with brown hair, and thinner and paler than her sister. She was bright-eyed and eager, but she also looked like a strong wind might blow her over. Michael Corner and Terry Boot from Ravenclaw had also joined this week.

“It’s good to meet you, Astoria,” Hermione told her, shaking her hand. “Georgina’s told me a lot about you.”

“Good things, I hope?” Astoria replied cheekily.

“She said you’re no fan of Umbridge, and you want to learn to defend yourself properly. That’s good enough for me.”

“Come on, Astoria, I’ll work with you,” Georgina said and led her friend to the side of the room.

With Georgina as Astoria’s partner, Dennis had to partner with Colin, so there was a bit of reshuffling, but once they got started, things were going pretty well. Hermione faced off against Luna to start.

“So Luna, I wrote your father last week. I don’t know if he told you—” she said.

“He did. We have ways to communicate without raising suspicion.”

Somehow, she wasn’t surprised. “That’s good. He said he trusts me to handle it, but you’re welcome to come to lunch if you want.”

“I think I will. It should be interesting. I think we should do it at the Three Broomsticks, though.”

“The Three Broomsticks? Why? The Hog’s Head is a lot less crowded.”

“Exactly. It’s too easy for spies to listen in there. And it’s a less savoury crowd, too. If Professor Umbridge catches you there…”

“She wouldn’t have a legal leg to stand on, but she could probably try something. Right,” Hermione agreed. “Okay, then, I’ll meet you at the Three Broomsticks at noon on Saturday. I’ll sort things out by then.”

“Saturday?” a familiar voice called. “Doth mine ears deceive me? You’re going on a lunch date with our little Luna?”

“It’s a business meeting, George,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“But you know this is Valentine’s weekend in Hogsmeade, don’t you?” George said. “I was just about to ask you—”

“I’d love to, George, but we’ll have to skip lunch. I’m sorry, but we could only do this on a Hogsmeade weekend, and it’ll really strike back at the Ministry. It’s just for lunch, though, and the rest of the day, I’m yours.”

George brightened and flashed her a provocative grin. “I like the sound of that,” he said.

“And get your mind out of the gutter. Anyway, I have to talk to Harry and Cedric.”

Harry was surveying the group, giving pointers to people as needed. He’d really grown into the teaching role, especially now that Hermione couldn’t come every time. “They’re really coming along,” he told her when he saw her.

“Yes, they are.”

“You know, I was thinking maybe we could try to teach them the Patronus Charm.”

“Really?” Hermione said in surprise. “I was thinking about it, but it’s a very advanced spell. Not all of them will be able to do it.”

“A lot will. We learnt it, didn’t we?”

“Yes, but with months of hard work. But if you think we should try it, we can. It couldn’t hurt. Although we still have catching up to do for Remus’s syllabus.”

“Yeah, but soon, I think.”

“Alright. Listen, Harry, this is really important,” she changed the subject. “You too, Cedric,” she called the Head Boy over. “I need you two to come meet me for lunch at the Three Broomsticks on Saturday.”

“Saturday?” Harry said. “I have a date with Ginny, though. It’s—”

“Valentine’s weekend. I know. I have a date with George, too. I’d say Ginny and Cho could come, but we can’t be having too many people without attracting attention. You really need to be there, though. This’ll finally give you a way to stick it to Umbridge.”

“It will? How?”

Hermione grinned: “By using one of her favourite weapons against her: the press.”

Harry and Cedric stared at her in surprise, but they could find no reason to doubt her. “Well, Cho’s not gonna like it much, but I think she’ll understand,” Cedric agreed. “I’ll see you there.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Harry agreed. “But _you_ have to deal with Ginny’s temper.”

Hermione wasn’t afraid of Ginny…much. Everything seemed well-set. But towards the end of the meeting, something most unexpected happened. Without being hit with a spell, Astoria stumbled and collapsed.

The other Slytherins rushed to her side, as did Hermione, and she didn’t like what she saw. Astoria had looked pale when she came in, but it was worse now. Daphne started to help her to her feet, but Hermione managed to worm her way in to check her over first.

“She’s fine, Granger,” Daphne insisted.

“‘S okay,” Astoria said wearily. “Just need a break.”

“I just want to help,” Hermione said. “She doesn’t look so good.” Astoria looked worse up close. She was out of breath, despite an easy session, and Hermione could see the pallor in her lips and gums. She saw white nail beds, too, as she took the girl’s pulse. Her heart was racing. “I think she’s sick, Daphne,” she said.

“She’s just tired.”

“Daphne, my parents trained as Healers. She’s not tired. She’s anaemic. She needs to see Madam Pomfrey.”

“She’ll be fine—” Daphne started.

“Madam Pomfrey already knows,” Georgina cut in.

“Georgina!” Daphne and Astoria both said indignantly.

“I know Hermione, girls. She just wants to help. Hermione, Astoria’s…” She glanced at her friend, who looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, Madam Pomfrey knows, and she’s doing what she can. That’s all you need to know. But Astoria needs to take it easy here.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Hermione said uneasily, wondering what form of anaemia could affect witches like this. “I was just worried for her.” She hesitated and looked at Daphne. “You didn’t have to let her come.”

“I wanted to,” Astoria said, still catching her breath. “Even if I can’t do all of it, I need to learn what I can.”

“You could have told me,” Hermione said. “I have a few spells that are designed to be easier to cast and don’t take a lot of energy.”

“Yeah, that’d be good.”

“Why don’t you sit down for a few minutes? I get back to you soon.”

Astoria nodded, and Georgina led her back to the side of the room to rest. Hermione looked back at Daphne.

“You don’t have to tell me—”

“Then I won’t,” Daphne snapped.

“Just as long as she’s getting good care,” Hermione said. If Daphne was impeding her sister somehow…

“She is,” she insisted. “I just don’t want her looking weak in front of the other houses.”

“Fine. I’ll do what I can that won’t be too hard for her.”

Daphne still didn’t look happy with the situation, but she eventually grumbled, “Thanks, Granger.”

Astoria did considerably better when Hermione gave her a few simpler spells like her Flashbang Hex to work with. She wondered if there were spellbooks that were designed specifically for people who weren’t very strong witches and wizards or who had a chronic illness or a disability of some kind. There might not be, she thought, since wizards were so much healthier than muggles on average, but maybe Mr. Filch’s Kwikspell courses had something like it. Either way, Astoria was grateful for the help, and Hermione resolved to keep a closer eye on her when she could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current Dumbledore’s Army Membership (33 total):  
> Leaders: Hermione Granger, Harry Potter  
> Gryffindor: Katie Bell, Colin Creevey, Dennis Creevey, Seamus Finnigan, Angelina Johnson, Lee Jordan, Neville Longbottom, Parvati Patil, Sally-Anne Perks, Alicia Spinnet, Dean Thomas, Fred Weasley, George Weasley, Ginny Weasley, Ron Weasley  
> Hufflepuff: Hannah Abbott, Susan Bones, Cedric Diggory, Justin Finch-Fletchley, Ernie Macmillan, Sophie Roper  
> Ravenclaw: Terry Boot, Cho Chang, Michael Corner, Anthony Goldstein, Luna Lovegood, Padma Patil  
> Slytherin: Tracey Davis, Astoria Greengrass, Daphne Greengrass, Georgina Vector


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: We are thankful that JK Rowling has not placed fanfiction on the register of banned books.
> 
> The modification to the Quibbler ban comes from Harry and Luna Against the High Inquisitor by Arpad Hrunta and is totally something Umbridge would do.
> 
> Credit to Belial666 for the idea for Hermione’s solar furnace.

Hermione made sure to get to Hogsmeade early on Saturday, about the same time the carriages would get there from the castle. She’d realised too late that she hadn’t actually arranged a _place_ to meet George, but she made a beeline for the most likely place to find him: Zonko’s Joke Shop. Sure enough, there he was, but her eyes were drawn to a stranger sight: Fred was there too with Angelina Johnson, and he was sort of hanging off her while she was trying to elbow him away.

“Angelina, you okay?” she said.

But then George spotted her. “Hermione! Come to me, my darling,” he said with a goofy grin. He picked her up, twirled her around, and snogged her long enough to leave a silly grin on her own face.

“Well, good morning to you, too,” she said.

“And what a lovely day it is, too.” He kissed her again.

“Okay, so what did you want to do this morning?”

“How about some more of this?” He kissed her yet again.

“George!” Her grin vanished, and she pushed him away.

“Say my name again.” He tried to get another kiss in, but she managed to shove him off this time.

“George! What’s got into you?!”

“They’ve potioned themselves,” Angelina groaned, “and Fred, I am _this close_ to Stunning you! They’ve been like this all morning. Check his pockets for an antidote. Fred doesn’t have one.”

Hermione sighed. “George, be a dear, and give me your antidote, will you?” she said sweetly. “I _know_ you’re too sensible not to be carrying one when you test something on yourself.”

“Anything for my beautiful girl,” George said. He pulled a phial out of his robes and handed it to her—while still trying to kiss her again.

Some quick wand work on the girls’ part had both twins on their knees and her pouring the potion down their throats in seconds.

“Whoa,” they said, shaking their heads when the antidote took effect.

“Erm…sorry about that, girls,” said George.

“ _Way_ too strong on the Kissing Concoction,” Fred commented.

“Yes. Better go to a quarter strength from there, and maybe shorten the brewing time?”

“Less time stewing the ashwinder eggs, I think. We can’t reduce the amount too much.”

“Boys!” Angelina cut in. “ _What_ was all that about?”

“Just testing some new products for the shop, Angie,” Fred told them.

“We’re thinking of calling it the WonderWitch Line,” said George.

“WonderWitch. For all your love potion needs.”

“Cosmetics, too, probably.”

“It’s a work in progress.”

Hermione’s jaw dropped. “Love potions? Are you nuts? You can’t sell love potions!”

“Why not?” they asked in unison.

“Because they make people act like…that. There’s no telling how much trouble they could cause. What if people get fed them against their will?”

George hesitated. “Well…”

 Fred finished for him. “That was sort of the idea—ow!” Angelina smacked him in the back of the head.

“George,” she said, “how would you feel if someone fed me a love potion keyed to Draco Malfoy? Or him one keyed to me, for that matter?” George grimaced. That would have to be about the most disgusting thing he could imagine. It certainly was for her. “In fact, is that even legal?” she pressed.

“Well, it’s not like we’re brewing Amortentia,” he answered. “ _That_ stuff’s highly restricted. And yeah, I’d definitely hex Malfoy if that happened, but this is why we’re testing it. We want to tone it down so none of the potions make people do anything too bad. The Kissing Concoction is only _supposed_ to make you kiss the person it’s keyed to once and then stop. It’s not supposed to turn you into a molester.”

Fred nodded. “Yeah, and Flirting Fancies only make you flirt shamelessly,” he agreed.

“Crush Blush makes you really shy and blush and stuff around the target.”

“Twilight Moonbeams makes you compose poetry to them.”

“The Beguiling Bubbles—”

“Okay, I get the picture,” Hermione cut him off. “Look, I’m still not happy with it…but if you keep it really mild like that, I guess I can tolerate it. But you’d better be selling the antidotes, too. We don’t want any more incidents like this one.”

“We are. Heartbreak Teardrops and Calamity Lotion. Stops everything in its tracks.”

Hermione sighed. “Fine.”

“Great! So, what’ll it be, Hermione? Care for some tea?” George asked.

Hermione stared at him. “Did you take some of your Twilight Moonbeams?”

“Nope, just a coincidence. So, tea?”

“On Valentine’s weekend? No thanks. Let’s just try Honeydukes.”

Honeydukes was crowded, but it ironically wasn’t as saccharine-sweet as Madam Puddifoot’s was on Valentine’s weekend. The two couples browsed the candy offerings and took some time to relax together. Hermione had had enough kissing for a bit, but she was happy holding hands with George. She’d only seen her boyfriend in D.A. meetings since their very stressful Christmas, and it was good to see him relaxing for a change. It was getting harder and harder as Umbridge’s grip tightened.

“So how have you been, George?” she asked. “We haven’t really had time to talk.”

“Eh, we’re getting by,” he said. “It’s hard, but you know that. It’s not only what Umbridge and her decrees have done on their own. She’s like a dementor. She sucks all the fun out of everything. The other teachers are being more cautious about everything, not just not being able to talk outside their subjects.”

“Even the portraits are less talkative anymore,” Fred spoke up.

“She’s moved the ones she says are ‘trouble’,” Angelina explained. “She threatened to burn Sir Cadogan.”

George nodded firmly: “Yeah. And she’s enforcing stuff like the dress code and PDA rules a lot more than the other teachers ever did. A lot of couples have been itching to get out here just for a snog.”

“Too bad we didn’t have the Kissing Concoction ready yet,” Fred quipped.

“Mm hmm. Everyone’s going spare, really…Fred’s going more spare than most.”

“Oi. I’m not that bad.”

“Then who said the other day that you—”

“Hey! You don’t need to tell the girls that.”

“Tell the girls what?” Hermione and Angelina said in unison.

Fred looked between the two of them, then hemmed and hawed for a minute and said, “I’m just starting to think it’s not worth it to stay at Hogwarts.”

“What?” Hermione gasped.

“Hey, you know how it is here.”

“Yes, but to drop out?”

“We can’t play Quidditch. We can’t pull half the pranks we want to. George can’t hardly ever see you. We can’t run our mail order business from in school. And Umbridge has made it her mission to make us miserable. Besides, _you_ left, didn’t you?”

“ _I_ have a tutor, Fred. And I left to protect my parents, not me. As long as I was at Hogwarts, it was me _and_ them at that woman’s mercy. George, _you_ _’re_ not thinking of leaving, are you?”

George looked uncomfortable. “I won’t say it’s not tempting,” he said, “but I told Fred, we don’t have anywhere to go. We can’t afford a shop front, and we probably won’t be able to for a couple years. And we can’t run home to Mum before we graduate. If you think you’ve seen her mad, you haven’t seen anything yet.”

“We have enough to afford a flat, though,” Fred offered.

“A cheap one. And that extra four months’ rent, or more? That would cut into our funding a lot.”

“We’re gonna have to do something come summer, though, anyway. Mum’s not gonna tolerate us running a mail-order prank business from home, even though we’re of age.”

“Then we’ll figure it out later,” George said. “Right now, we’ve still got four more months to work on it.”

Fred turned away unhappily. Hermione could see the tension between them. She knew this year had been a strain on the pair, and if she was honest, she had contributed a little to that, but she really couldn’t let this go. She turned to her boyfriend, and said, “George, I…I don’t want you to think this is just about academics for me. I know you won’t need N.E.W.T.s for your shop. But we know you’re going to need time to get it off the ground, and if you ever need a side job, or if having credentials would help you promote your shop…”

“I know. The N.E.W.T.s will help.” He smiled a little. “Even if we only sit three apiece. We can’t all be super-geniuses.”

Hermione shook her head. “That’s really not the important thing,” she said. “You’re both brilliant in your own way, but I’m worried about your future plans. Honestly, they don’t look as good as they did before this mess, so I really hope you’ll stick it out. And try to keep Fred from doing anything rash. I care about him, too.”

George smiled at her again. “Don’t worry, Hermione. I will.” He kissed her softly.

She felt reassured as she walked to the Three Broomsticks, which was good, as she had to steel herself to face Rita Skeeter again. She met Skeeter first of the people she’d invited. Luna, Harry, and Cedric soon followed. The reporter spent a lot of time glaring at her. Harry was understandably wary when he saw her, but he relaxed when Hermione explained the situation: “The Ministry owns the _Prophet_ , but they don’t own _The Quibbler_. Ms. Skeeter is going to publish the _true_ account of what happened in the Third Task there.”

Cedric frowned. “Not many people read _The Quibbler_ , though,” he said. “And even fewer take it seriously—no offence, Luna.”

“That’s why I asked Ms. Skeeter to do the interview,” Hermione explained. “She’s a household name. And she owes me a favour.”

“I thought the deal was I just don’t publish for a year,” Skeeter needled her.

“Are you complaining, Rita?” Hermione said. She lowered her voice and added, “I am altering the deal. Pray I don’t alter it any further.”

Skeeter shuddered. “You wouldn’t.”

“Honestly, I’m not quite sure myself what I’d do anymore. I’ve been pushed around a little too much this year. Care to find out?”

“I’ll write your little story, Granger,” she grumbled. “ _Accurately_ , just like you want.”

“Good. Cedric, as I was saying, besides Ms. Skeeter, no matter how much he’s maligned, Harry still has some fame capital, and I’m _hoping_ there are enough people there who can see that the _Prophet_ _’s_ line about the Azkaban breakout doesn’t make sense. I think people are primed for something new.”

 _“Fire away, then, Rita,”_ Harry said.

* * *

Hermione caught back up with George, Fred, and Angelina after the interview, but while they enjoyed the rest of their date, she had one more person she needed to find before she left.

“Oh, Ron, I’m glad we caught you,” Hermione said when they found him.

“You are?” Ron said. “Er, I mean, great. What’s up?”

“I’m working on a prank with Fred and George, but we need your help. You’re good with impressions. Can you mimic Professor McGonagall’s voice?”

“McGonagall? I’m a guy, you know.”

“I know, but can you try? It doesn’t have to be that close.”

“Well, I guess I can try.” Ron cleared his throat and said in a clipped falsetto, “Mr. Weasley, if you are late one more time, I shall transfigure you into a pocket watch.”

Hermione giggled and the Twins chortled loudly. “Not perfect, but I think it’ll be close enough,” she said.

“What’s this about, Hermione?” George said.

“Yeah, what do you need our brother’s unique vocal skills for?” added Fred.

Hermione grinned like a Cheshire cat: “We’re going to prank Albus Dumbledore.”

The three Weasleys’ jaws dropped.

“Hermione, I love you!”

That was Fred, not George, and it resulted in him getting a swift slap in the back of the head from both George and Hermione.

* * *

The following Saturday morning was the time she had set for the prank, just before her meeting with Septima. George and Fred were eager to try it. Out of all the staff, the only people the Twins had never managed to prank once were Professor Dumbledore and Professor Snape. Dumbledore was too smart, and she had a bad feeling Snape was using Legilimency to catch them whenever they tried anything. So when Hermione told them she had a plan that had a pretty good chance of pulling one over on the Headmaster himself, they jumped at the chance.

It was a complicated operation, requiring five people to pull off. First, Hermione used the function on the Mathemagician’s Map to trace people’s movements to follow Dumbledore around the castle for the entire week and plan the time and place of the prank. He spent a lot of time in his office, and she didn’t know what wards he had in there, so that was no good. His movements weren’t very predictable the rest of the time, but he almost always took the same route to and from the Great Hall for meal times. Therefore, she chose a fairly isolated corridor on the seventh floor to catch him just after breakfast.

Dobby was needed to communicate between them several times throughout the week and to alert Hermione when the prank was actually put into action.

On Saturday morning, Hermione slipped into Hogwarts early and loaned the Mathemagician’s Map to George to run the prank, then headed for the Owlery while George, Fred, and Ron got into position. Around the corner from where Dumbledore would pass by, they got set up. Fred transfigured a piece of rubbish into a cat that looked exactly like Professor McGonagall’s animagus form, and George charmed it to appear ghostly, translucent, and glowing.

Ron was practising the line he needed to say in McGonagall’s voice. It didn’t need to be perfect, but it needed to be close enough that Dumbledore wouldn’t question it in the heat of the moment. He would be speaking into a new invention of the Twins’: an Extendable Mouth, which was basically an Extendable Ear reversed.

As Fred saw Dumbledore approach on the Map, they quickly applied the final piece of magic. This was the weak link in the prank. They’d had time to test it, but certainly not time to perfect it. They poured a sample of Hermione’s Draught of Peace from her Potions lesson onto the cat in the hopes that the fumes would influence those who were near it, and George charmed it to radiate a powerful Cheering Charm. The combined effect ought to replicate the aura of goodness and purity that surrounded a true Patronus—they hoped. The Weasley boys certainly felt the effects. It only had to last about a minute, so they had high hopes it would work.

As Dumbledore walked down the corridor to his office, he was surprised to find a familiar-looking Patronus run around the corner. If he noticed anything off about it, he didn’t have time to think about it as it spoke to him and said, “Albus, I need you in the Owlery urgently,” in what sounded passably like Minerva McGonagall’s voice.

“I am on my way, Minerva,” he said, and he turned on his heal and hurried off.

The Weasley boys stared at each other. “Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh, Merlin! I can’t believe that worked!” Fred said.

“It’s official. Hermione is the Queen of Pranksters,” George agreed.

“We pranked Dumbledore,” Ron said. “I can’t believe we just pranked Dumbledore!”

George grinned. “I can’t wait to see the look on Dumbledore’s face when Hermione gets back with those photos.”

* * *

Hermione stood in the Owlery where Dobby popped in and said, “Miss Hermione, Professor Dumbledore is coming.”

She smiled. “Thank you, Dobby.” She activated the pair of Omnioculars that she had mostly hidden under a pile of feathers and waited for him to arrive. She tried to adopt a confident and superior stance to really get the message across. She was starting to appreciate the value of good showmanship, even in the magical world. Perhaps especially in the magical world.

Dumbledore rushed into the Owlery, wand out. “Minerva, I am here,” he said. “What is—Hermione?” He spotted her and looked around curiously. “Where is Professor McGonagall?”

Hermione smiled sweetly and said, “She isn’t here, Professor.”

“Have you seen her? I received her Patronus message.”

She smiled wider and said, “No, you didn’t,” in a sing-song voice.

Dumbledore’s face shifted to a look of shock as he realised what had happened. “Then you—?”

“ _Constant vigilance!_ ” Hermione said, trying to effect a gravelly voice. “If I’d had Polyjuice Potion with me, you’d have swallowed every word I said, Professor.”

Dumbledore regarded her and reluctantly admitted. “I suppose I might have…It would appear that I have been pranked. It has been a long time since anyone has done so successfully.”

“Well, I try, sir.”

“Very impressive, Hermione. I do wonder how it was done…” he said. Hermione was about to tell him to figure it out for himself, but he closed his eyes and, she guessed, began going back over the incident in his mind. “A transfigured cat,” he reasoned, “made to look like Professor McGonagall’s animagus form. Probably created by an older student. Your boyfriend and his twin, I think?”

“Very good, Professor.”

“Who provided the voice?”

“Ron. He’s very good at impressions.”

“And to make it look and feel like a true Patronus would have taken some impressive charms work. A Cheering Charm, I presume?”

She nodded. “And doused with Draught of Peace.”

“Very clever…Yet only convincing to a novice,” he said with concern. “I should have noticed something was wrong.”

“That’s exactly my point, sir. You said your Patronus method was secure. You _believed_ the message couldn’t be faked, so you didn’t question it when it was.”

This seemed to be a revelation to Dumbledore. He was silent for some time, considering her words. “It would seem you have a talent for locating the flaws in my logic this year, Hermione,” he said at last. “Although I would point out that this only applies if the enemy knows about the Patronus messages.”

“True. But still, your overconfidence is your weakness. I’m not as paranoid as Auror Moody, and I spotted the flaw at once.”

“And you believe you have a better idea?” he pressed her.

She shook her head. “I wouldn’t say that, sir, but I do have my own methods of communicating with people. I know they’re not perfect, but I’m aware of the problems, and I try to anticipate them.” She was still experimenting with different authentication schemes for her rings so that they would only work for the person they were keyed to, but she hadn’t found a method she really liked yet.

“I see. Then I will keep that in mind. Thank you from pointing that out.” He smiled, then. “I daresay some money will be changing hands tonight.”

Hermione furrowed her brow. “Why, Professor?”

“Quite a few of the staff have wagers on whether the Weasley Twins would be able to prank me before they graduate. I shall have to give them quite a few points as well.”

Hermione laughed and packed up her Omnioculars. “Thank you, Professor,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.” She left the Owlery leaving Dumbledore in not a little confusion.

* * *

“So if my maths is right, wrapping multiple identical spells in a single layer of magic is possible, but it would be really unstable,” Hermione told Septima. “It’s like my Bouncing Disarming Jinx in principle, but trying to shoehorn the magical fields into that shape doesn’t work very well.”

“Yes, there’s a reason nobody really tries that,” Septima agreed. “That’s why I’m hoping your self-similarity relation will improve it.”

“I think it will, but it’s not that simple. I thought about it some more, and I think the spellcrafting process will be more analogous to a recurrence relation than a power series, especially since we’re only doing a few iterations.”

Septima rubbed her chin and considered that. “I can see where you’re coming from,” she agreed, “but I was thinking something more along the lines of multiple castings translating to multiple iterations instead of multiple instantiations. That way, if you cast the spell twice, it would produce three, four, or more copies instead of just two.”

“Or twenty in the case of the Menger sponge, but they’d have to be a lot weaker,” Hermione said automatically. “Hm…it could work. The limit would be a standard wide-area spell, though, and there aren’t many of those. I think it would have to take a very specific arithmantic form.”

“Well, with the part I could understand I came up with—”

But what Septima had come up with would have to wait because at that moment, a series of chimes rang out from the door with the sound of a funeral march.

“Septima?” Hermione said nervously.

Septima sighed heavily. “Will that woman just bugger off?” she muttered to herself. Hermione’s eyes widened at her teacher’s language. “That means Umbridge is at the door.”

“Can you ignore her and pretend you’re not home?” Hermione asked.

The chimes rang out again.

“No, she’s not gonna let it go.” She got up and opened the door. “Dolores. May I help you?”

“I’m terribly sorry to bother you, Professor Vector, but I was wondering if you’d seen Hermione Granger this morning.”

“Hermione Granger? Why would I have?” Septima said.

“She was seen in the castle this morning, and she certainly has no business being here.”

 _Oh, no,_ Hermione thought. _The one time I wander around the castle without my map_ _…_

“I would _hope_ that you haven’t been continuing your…‘class’ with her after it was struck from the schedule,” Umbridge continued.

“I assure you I have been teaching no extra classes since the latest decree,” Septima said dryly.

“And would mind if I just check your apartment for a moment?”

Umbridge tried to push in the door, but was quickly blocked by Septima. “Yes, I _would_ mind, Dolores.”

The woman tried to push harder. “Just to a quick look around, Septima—”

Septima pushed her back. “This is my private space—”

“I am the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts—”

BANG! Hermione couldn’t quite see what happened, but she suspected Umbridge had cast a spell because Septima staggered back, and the High Inquisitor stumbled into the room. _Here we go_ , Hermione thought resignedly. She sighed and stood up.

“Nosey as ever, I see, Dolores,” Septima said, but Umbridge ignored her.

“Miss Granger!” she exclaimed. “I knew it!”

“Professor Umbridge,” Hermione said, determinedly holding her head high.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

“I don’t see as that’s any business of yours, Professor, as I’m not an enrolled student here.”

“I am the High Inquisitor of Hogwarts, Miss Granger, and your presence here—”

“Is not up to your discretion, Professor.”

“Oh, isn’t it, Miss Granger?” Umbridge said with an evil grin. “A quick Floo call can change that.”

“Actually, it can’t, ma’am.”

“Excuse me?”

“I checked into the laws, Professor. The castle is not the school, and vice versa. They’re separate legal entities. As long as I don’t interfere with the operation of the school, the Department of Magical Education has no jurisdiction; only the Headmaster.”

Umbridge glared at her. She knew she had her dead to rights on that one. “ _Well_ , be that as it may, according to Educational Decree—”

“Yes, yes, we all know about your decrees, Dolores,” Septima cut her off. “But I told you truthfully that I was not teaching an unauthorised class.”

“And this is just a social visit, then?”

Septima raised an eyebrow: “And what if it is?”

“Miss Granger may not be under my jurisdiction, but _you_ are, Septima.” She grinned wider, and Hermione _knew_ she’d been waiting for years for this moment. “Meeting with a student who is enrolled in a different program is a conflict of interest.”

“Show me where it says that anywhere.”

“Give me until Monday morning, and I will.”

Hermione sighed. She was pretty sure she knew what this would do, but she wasn’t about to let Septima take the fall for her. “It doesn’t matter, Professor, because I’m not here in my capacity as a student.”

“Hermione,” Septima whispered.

“Whatever do you mean, Miss Granger?” Umbridge said.

“If you must know, I was teaching.”

“Teaching? Don’t be ridiculous. You don’t have a license.”

“Advanced Topics in Mathematics is not listed as a subject that requires Ministry accreditation to teach, Professor. However, it is a valid muggle maths class that I am qualified to tutor at the post-secondary level and as such is accepted by the Arithmancers’ Guild as continuing education.” Hermione smiled sweetly and added, “You don’t think I would have done this without making sure everything was legal, did you?”

Umbridge’s eye started twitching. “Mark my words, Granger,” she said, “your insolence will bring you to a sticky end soon enough.” And she turned and stormed out of the apartment.

“And your little dog, too,” Hermione said when the door was safely closed.

Septima slumped in her chair. “You shouldn’t have done that, Hermione,” she said.

“Better me being kicked out of the castle than you, Septima. I need you here to keep an eye on Harry. Come on, let’s organise these notes. I have a feeling I’ll have to work on my own for a while. Oh, and before I leave, I have a ring I want to give you.”

“What?”

* * *

After that conversation, Hermione had to skip the Quidditch match. Going to that could have been seen as interfering with the school. Her friends had hoped to see her there, but there was nothing she could do. Of course, Harry reflected afterwards, she didn’t miss much. Between the lack of the Twins and Ron’s lack of confidence, their defence was so terrible that they still lost even though Ginny caught the Snitch after just twenty-two minutes.

Everything came to a head the following Monday when Harry found a pile of letters appearing in front of him at breakfast.

“What’s all this?” Ron said.

“Yeah, where’d all this come from?” said Ginny.

“Hello, Harry.” They looked up and saw Luna Lovegood coming over to them, she had Cedric with her, who also had a handful of letters. “You should probably read the article first,” Luna said.

“The article?” Harry said. “Oh, right the _Quibbler_ article.”

“You mean the one Hermione set up?” Ginny said.

“Yeah.” Harry ripped open a rolled-up parcel in brown paper and unrolled the March edition of _The Quibbler_. The front cover showed the side-by-side pictures of Harry and Cedric as Triwizard Champions from last year with the headline:

 

_HARRY POTTER AND CEDRIC DIGGORY SPEAK OUT_

_THE TRUTH ABOUT HE-WHO-MUST-NOT-BE-NAMED_

_AND THE NIGHT HE RETURNED_

 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” Luna said. “Dad says it could be our best-selling issue ever.”

“The real test will be how many people actually believe it, though,” Cedric said.

“If they care enough to write, they probably do—” Ginny said, opening Harry’s nearest letter, but then, her face fell. “Oh. Never mind. This one thinks you’re crazy, Harry.” She grumbled to herself and crumpled up the letter.

Cedric frowned and opened his first letter. “Hey, this one believes us,” he said.

Harry opened a letter himself and soon found that perhaps half of the people who bothered write to him and Cedric believed them, but they didn’t have time to compare notes before that annoying, false, girlish voice sounded behind them, “Is there a problem here, Mr. Diggory?”

Cedric turned around and forced to keep himself calm as he looked down at Umbridge. “Not at all, Professor,” he said.

“Then what is all of this?” She motioned to the letters.

“Fan mail, ma’am.”

“Fan mail? Why would two students be receiving fan mail?”

“Maybe because we won the Triwizard Tournament together, ma’am. Is there a problem?”

“I would have thought that any ‘fan mail’ regarding the Tournament you would have received last summer, not suddenly eight months later,” Umbridge said. “This seems awfully…suspicious.” Then, with a speed they didn’t know she possessed, she snatched the letters out of Cedric’s hands.

“Professor!” he exclaimed.

“Suspicious correspondence must be inspected for the students’ safety.” She flipped through the letters and quickly found the magazine that Cedric had hidden beneath them. She read the cover, and her pale face turned a blotchy purple with anger. “What is this, Mr. Diggory?” she squeaked a bit higher than normal.

Cedric sighed quietly. “If you read the cover, Professor, you would know that it’s an interview that Harry and I gave about what happened last June.”

“And when did you do this?”

“During the last Hogsmeade Weekend.”

Umbridge was shaking with rage now. She was so angry she couldn’t even speak above a whisper. “There will be no more Hogsmeade visits for you and Mr. Potter, Mr. Diggory. Fifty points from each of your houses and a week’s detention for each of you, and I will be speaking to the Headmaster about your Head Boy position. I have tried again and again to teach you two not to tell lies. I don’t understand how you could…” She turned and eyed the table again. “Miss Lovegood!” she snapped.

“Yes, Professor?” Luna said.

“This is your father’s magazine, is it not?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Did you have anything to do with this?”

“Hermione Granger organised the whole thing, Professor,” Cedric stepped in front of her. “And it was perfectly legal.”

Umbridge flashed a wicked smile. “ _Sedition_ is not legal, Mr. Diggory.”

“There was no sedition here, ma’am,” Cedric replied. “We spoke against the Administration, not the Ministry itself. There’s no sedition in engaging in the democratic process.”

She stared at him a moment, looked down at the magazine, and back at him. “I shall be reading this interview carefully to confirm that, then.”

“Professor, do you actually have the authority to punish us for this?” Cedric tried. “It took place off of school property, and giving an interview to the press isn’t against the rules.”

“It was a school-sanctioned trip, Mr. Diggory,” she sniffed. “It’s still under my disciplinary authority. And spreading libel and inciting a panic _is_ against the rules…Miss Lovegood, you didn’t answer my question.”

“She didn’t do anything,” Harry said.

“I helped give the interview,” Luna spoke up calmly.

“Luna, no!” Ginny hissed.

Luna rose from the table. “I’m not afraid to stand up for what I believe in, Professor.”

“Then you will share in your conspirators’ punishment, Miss Lovegood. Fifty points from Ravenclaw and a week’s detention.”

“NO!” Ginny leapt from the table and drew her wand. “Don’t touch her!” She would have cast her Bat-Bogey Hex had her brothers not pulled her back.

“Twenty points from Gryffindor and detention tonight, Miss Weasley, if you’re so eager to join your friends,” Umbridge snapped. She raised her voice and said to the entire Hall, “There will be more announcements over the course of the day, students. Please give them your full attention.”

* * *

Sirius Black waited anxiously late into the evening for the expected mirror-call. He knew there was a good chance Harry would land himself in detention for that interview and would be too tired to call him, but when the mirror finally buzzed, he was very surprised, and worried, to see a sobbing Ginny Weasley appear.

“Ginny? What’s wrong? Did something happen to Harry?”

She shook her head.

“What happened? Where is he?”

“D-detention,” she choked out.

“Oh, well, we expected that, but—Oh, he got the Quill again, didn’t he?”

“He did, but…”

“But? But what? What else is there?”

“He’s with Luna!” Ginny sobbed.

“Luna?”

“Umbridge gave her a week’s detention, too. You have to _do_ something, Sirius! Can’t you stop her? Can’t someone arrest her or something? Can _we_ arrest her? We have the D.A.! Isn’t there something called a citizen’s arrest or something?”

“ _No_ , Ginny. We’ve tried, but she’s untouchable as long as Fudge has her back. Even if we get her on something, he’ll just pardon her and fire Amelia Bones, and we can’t afford that.”

“I can’t stand to see her like that, Sirius,” she said. “It’s bad enough watching Harry carve up his hand again, but Luna’s been my best friend since we were tiny. She’s too sweet and innocent to be hurt like that.”

“Wait, you _saw_ them doing it?” he said, confused.

“I got detention, too. For defending her.”

“Oh, no. With the Quill?”

She nodded. “‘ _I must respect my elders._ ’ But only one night. No scars.” She held up her unmarked hand. “But I don’t care about that. I just want to get Luna out of it. And Harry if I can—”

“Ginny! Ginny, I’m sorry,” Sirius tried to calm her. “There’s just nothing we can do right now. Not without risking something greater. And I’ve met Luna. She’s stronger than she looks. You’re just going to have to…Wait—there is one thing I can do. I can ask Hermione if she’ll do another interview—without Luna this time—and print what Umbridge is doing in _The Quibbler_.” He stopped in thought as something struck him: “Wait a minute, if Harry and Luna are in detention, what about Cedric Diggory?”

“Sirius,” she said, “Cedric’s gone.”

* * *

Hermione knew nothing of what had happened at Hogwarts that day, except that Harry hadn’t been able to mirror-call her when she was at Grimmauld Place, so he probably had detention. She went home after her lessons with Professor Slughorn still wondering what was happening. It did worry her that Umbridge might come up with something worse than she’d already done, but hopefully the worst that would happen (though it was still pretty bad) would be that Harry would get another week’s detention.

It was after dinner that Hermione heard a loud and familiar bang in front of the house and immediately went on alert. Something was up. She couldn’t think of anyone who knew where she lived, would want to visit her tonight, and would need to take the Knight Bus to do it. She looked through the peephole, fearing some sort of Death Eater plot, but she was shocked to see Cedric coming up the front walk.

“Is something happening, Hermione,” her mum called.

“Cedric’s at the door, Mum,” she called back. “He should be at school. I think something’s wrong…Dobby?”

 _Pop!_ “Yes, Miss Hermione.”

“We have company. Stay behind me in case there’s trouble.” She drew a homemade wand and opened the door. “Cedric?”

“Hermione. Good, you’re home.” He waved to her left-handed, his wooden arm hanging limp by his side. He stepped forward, but she pointed her wand at him.

“Just a moment. The first time you we met, what did you say to me?” Hermione said.

“What?”

“Answer the question, please.”

Cedric closed his eyes and thought back. “I thought you were lost because you’d wandered into the Arithmancy classroom. I asked you what room you were looking for.”

She lowered her wand. “Sorry about that. Can’t be too careful these days.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

“Come on in. I didn’t know you knew where I lived.”

“Harry told me.”

“Ah.”

Cedric entered the house uneasily looking around at the muggle dwelling and was greeted by Hermione’s family. He was a little surprised to see the house elf, even though he knew she had hired one.

“Cedric, you remember my parents, don’t you?” Hermione asked.

“Of course. It’s good to see you again, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” he said.

“You too, Cedric,” Dan said, “but what are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be at school?”

Cedric grimaced. “Yeah, um, about that…I dropped out.”

All of the Grangers’ jaws dropped. “What?!” Hermione said.

“Aren’t you Head Boy?” Emma asked.

“I was…But not anymore. That’s not my school anymore. Dumbledore may still be Headmaster, but Umbridge is the one who’s really running the place. Did you know she put up _two_ new Educational Decrees today?”

“No. I expected one, but…what are they?” asked Hermione.

He produced two sheets of parchment, one longer than the other. The first one read:

 

_By Order of The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_

_In order to promote the efficient functioning of Hogwarts, teachers may not participate in continuing education programs during the academic year._

_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Eight._

_Signed by:_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_High Inquisitor_

 

“Well, I expected that one,” Hermione said.

“You did?”

“Yes, I was claiming to be teaching a maths class to Septima to get around the last Decree, but I had to take the fall for her when Umbridge caught us.”

“Are you in trouble, Hermione?” Emma asked.

“No, I just can’t work with her till Umbridge is gone. What was the second Decree?”

Cedric showed them the other parchment:

 

_By Order of The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_

_Any student found possessing, reading, or listening to any banned media (see Schedule) will be expelled._

_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Twenty-Nine._

_Signed by:_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_High Inquisitor_

****

_Schedule to Educational Decree Number Twenty-Nine_

_List of banned media:_

_The Quibbler_

_Playwizard_

_Weekly World News_

 

“A schedule?” Hermione said. “Oh, she _is_ good. Moves fast, too. I didn’t think she could do that the same day.”

“There’s a Play- _wizard?_ ” Emma said.

“ _Weekly World News_ is on the list?” Dan asked.

Hermione shot her parents a look telling them to focus on the matter at hand. “Well, one silver lining: if she bans the interview, it’ll make _everyone_ want to read it. But Cedric, why would you drop out of Hogwarts? What could have been so bad to make you do that? And what about all the other students who need you to stand up for them?”

“Hermione, I can’t do that if I have to let Umbridge walk all over me to do it. I had to take a stand and show her that I wouldn’t take it.”

Hermione frowned. “She gave you detention, didn’t she?”

“A whole week.”

“Are you hungry? We have leftovers. I’m guessing you didn’t get a chance to eat supper.”

“I could use a bite, thanks.”

“Dobby, dish up a new plate for Cedric, please,” Emma said.

“Yes, Mrs. Granger.”

“So, you got detention?” she asked with concern.

“Yes. And Harry and Luna.”

“Luna, too?” Hermione said.

He smiled: “You should have seen her. She got up and said she needed to stand up for what she believes in…And then Ginny Weasley tried to defend her and got one night for her trouble.” Dobby appeared with his food, and he began shakily eating with only his left hand.

“Cedric, what happened in detention?” Hermione asked.

“She made us use those black quills of hers. You know the ones.”

Hermione turned grave, and her parents’ faces hardened. “Oh, yes. We know the ones,” Dan growled.

“Well, I started writing, and I thought it wouldn’t be too bad because I don’t have as much feeling in my magical prosthetic. But I forgot that the quill is supposed to heal it, and it doesn’t work on wood and metal. So I stopped and asked her if it was legal—”

“It is,” Hermione cut in. “She invented the damn things, so there’s no law against them.”

“Ah…Well, I thought like you did. And you’re right; there are a lot of younger students who look up to me, so I didn’t want to try anything, and I kept going. But then, the quill cut so deep into my hand that it broke the mechanism.” He flopped his wooden hand onto the table, and the Grangers gasped when they saw it. The words, _I must not tell lies_ , were carved wide and deep into the wood. Inside, the delicate cables that magically drove the mechanism were snapped and hanging frayed out of the holes. The fingers hung limp and only half-attached, as if all the tendons had been cut, which was pretty close to true. “Yeah, pretty nasty, isn’t it?” he said. “Any chance you can fix it?”

Hermione examined the hand closely. “Not without magic,” she said. “Not in a way that would last, anyway. And even with, er, the workaround I was using, Umbridge has the Accidental Magic Office watching me like a hawk, so I couldn’t do it here.”

“It’s fine. I just didn’t care to face my parents after this. Anyway, when my hand broke, I couldn’t hold the quill anymore…Umbridge told me to write the lines left-handed. I refused. I told her I wasn’t going to ruin my one good hand. She told me she could expel me for insubordination, and…I snapped. I told her I quit. I’m worried I made the wrong decision now, but at least I’m of age. Maybe I can be of more use outside of Hogwarts than in it, like you. I can go wherever I want and say whatever I want, not have to follow her stupid rules.”

“‘If you strike me down I shall become more powerful than you can possibly imagine,’” Hermione quoted.

“What?”

“Never mind. Do you know who’s going to be Head Boy now?”

“I asked Professor Sprout to recommend Roger to Dumbledore for me. That was the best I could do.”

Hermione nodded grimly. “It’s alright, Cedric,” she said. “I understand what you did. Heck I did the same thing months ago, and it’s done me a lot of good.”

“What about your education, though?” Dan asked.

“I can get a tutor, Mr. Granger.”

“Cedric’s a pureblood,” Hermione explained. “And well-off, to be honest. He won’t have near the trouble we did.”

“My dad will rant and rave about it for a while, but he’ll do it. But Hermione, I also wanted to warn you.”

The Grangers grew tense at once. “What about?” Hermione said.

“Umbridge is going to try to claim you were committing sedition by organising that interview. It won’t stick, of course. I was careful about what Harry and I said. But she might send Aurors to question you. If you have any contacts in the Auror office, you might want to tell them to get in front of it.”

Hermione swallowed hard. That could get very bad very fast. She hadn’t thought of a sedition charge. That would be ludicrous even for Umbridge, but maybe…“I will,” she said, already mentally composing letters for Dobby to deliver to Grimmauld Place for the first Auror who dropped by, and one to Susan Bones offering for Dobby to relay a message to her aunt…And she should probably write to George and Fred, urging them not to follow Cedric’s example. It was a totally different situation.

But then, there was also the risk of dementors, she realised for the first time. She still had a bad feeling someone in the Ministry had sent the dementors after Harry, and she’d just gone and painted a target on her back. She resolved to write another letter to Dumbledore to ask if he could do anything about that.

“I had a question, too, though,” Cedric added.

“Huh? Oh, what is it?” she snapped out of her thoughts.

“How have you been sneaking into the D.A. meetings?”

Hermione grinned. “Meet me at Honeydukes a half hour before the next scheduled meeting. I’ll get you in. Oh, and since you’re out of school now and working on your own, I think maybe I should give you a ring.”

_“What?!”_

She was having too much fun with that.

* * *

“Rookwood, I am heartened to see you have fully recovered from Azkaban,” Voldemort said. “And caught up on recent events, of course.”

“I am eager to serve you, Master,” Rookwood said.

“Good. For I need your expertise about your former department.”

“Of course, Master.”

“I informed you that before my unfortunate defeat, a prophecy had been made concerning me and Harry Potter. I seek to retrieve this prophecy to avoid another disastrous mistake such as that one.”

“That will be…difficult, Master,” Rookwood said nervously. “The prophecies are heavily protected to ensure no unauthorised persons can take them from their shelves.”

“Avery assured me that we had only to Imperius an Unspeakable to remove it for me. That failed.”

“Avery was wrong, Master,” Voldemort’s servant said, gaining confidence. “Only the subjects of a prophecy or the Keeper of the Hall of Prophecy may remove them.”

“The Keeper?” Voldemort asked.

Rookword shook his head. “You would have an easier time Imperiusing the Minister, Master. Or even this Madam Bones who has taken over Magical Law Enforcement. Not even the other Unspeakables know who the Keeper is.”

“I see…You have done well to tell me this, Rookwood…I have wasted months on Avery’s schemes…But no matter. If need be, I will infiltrate the Ministry myself. But we are yet unready. It would be far better to have Potter to retrieve the prophecy for me. I told you earlier that I was able to send him visions, Rookwood, but unfortunately, despite Severus’s best efforts, the brat is successfully learning Occlumency. I am growing less able to sway him.”

Voldemort fell silent, and Rookwood quickly realised he was angling for a solution. “My Lord,” he said shakily, “you are the most powerful Legilimens in the world—far more accomplished than I. If…if Potter is not fooled by your visions, then perhaps some other form of bait will be more effective.”

Voldemort thought this over. “Yes…perhaps. Potter _does_ have friends who are outside the protection of Hogwarts. And he certainly has a large hero complex. I will speak to Lucius of this. His son will know more. In the meantime, Rookwood, I want a complete map of the Department of Mysteries and a summary of everything you know about prophecies and the Hall of Prophecy.”

“I will see to it at once, my Lord.”

* * *

Despite her setbacks, Hermione continued her various projects. Her studies of metallurgy had fallen by the wayside for a while with everything else she had to do, especially now that she couldn’t do magic at home anymore, but she still had one thing she wanted to do before she wrapped them up: melting tungsten.

This apparently wasn’t standard even for muggles. Tungsten was not normally worked by melting. It was worked by sintering: heating and pressing the powdered metal to partially bond the particles. This wasn’t surprising because only rare and expensive ceramics could actually withstand enough heat to hold the molten metal. With Imperturbable Charms, she didn’t have that problem, but she did have a problem with how to generate that much heat in the first place. There was a big leap from the flames that wizards typically worked with, or even the 2,500-degrees Celsius of a thermite fire, to the 3,422-degree melting point of tungsten.

She investigated the various ways muggles created such intense heat, and didn’t find much that was promising. She couldn’t find any material about induction or electric arc furnaces going above 3,000 degrees Celsius. A solar furnace could reach 4,000 degrees, but she wasn’t sure if she could pull that off with the materials she had available. It would take a mirror shaped into a perfect paraboloid (probably with magic), and an Imperturbable Charm crucible (Hmm, could she get a paper out of that?) at just the right spot. How big would the mirror need to be? It took some fiddling with angles and the Stefan-Boltzmann Law, but it worked out to about 130 times the diameter of the target— _if_ she could point it directly at the sun and evacuate the air around the target. So it would take a mirror four feet wide to melt a one-centimetre target. Not very efficient, but it just might work.

She decided to try it. The trouble was where to do it. She couldn’t do it at home. It would raise too many eyebrows to try it there, and she would need to cast the Vacuum Charm with active magic. She could build it at Grimmauld Place, but there was no room to test it within the Fidelius Charm.

It seemed like she was stuck until, on Monday at Grimmauld Place, she had an idea.

“Sirius, does the Fidelius extend to the roof?”

“Well, I’d have to check with Dumbledore, but I’m pretty sure it would have to go higher than the chimneys and aerials. Why?”

Hermione smiled. “Can I get up there?”

It turned out she was in luck. Professor Dumbledore informed Sirius that the Fidelius Charm extended far enough above the roof of Grimmauld Place to test her solar furnace safely there as long as she used charms to clear away any smoke. And so, on Thursday, Sirius and Professor Slughorn both went up to help her. She probably could have done it herself, but it would be much easier with three of them.

Her solar furnace consisted of a wooden hoop four feet in diameter attached to a secondhand telescope mount with a basketwork of wood scraps. A huge sheet of Mylar was stretched across it, magically pulled back into a perfect mathematical paraboloid and smoothed out with an appropriate runic scheme. (Come to think of it, she could make a killing in the telescope business doing that.) A metal rod attached the crucible to it. The crucible was an ordinary drinking glass charmed unbreakable, and made nearly invisible with new charm Hermione had developed: a heavily-modified Colour-Change Charm that reduced the glass’s index of refraction so it was nearly identical to that of the air. This way, it would absorb as little of the sunlight as possible and should stay cool. She also charmed it heat-resistant and added an Imperturbable Charm over top of that, and then, she used the Vacuum Charm to evacuate the air in a bubble around it, making it the perfect crucible for melting tungsten.

“And how hot did you say this would get again, Miss Granger?” Professor Slughorn asked.

“If we can point the dish exactly right, it could be as hot as four thousand degrees Celsius,” she said.

“Four thousand…” he said in amazement. “I do believe that is hotter than any magical fire I’ve ever heard of. Of course, cursed fire can be more destructive, but it uses magic to do it.”

“Well, this is good, old-fashioned sunlight,” she said. “Just like burning things with a very large magnifying glass.”

“This will certainly be an achievement if it works, then. So we just point it at the sun?”

“Yes, so that the reflection hits the crucible.” She’s placed a small amount of tungsten powder in the Imperturbable Charm’s hollow. “Lucky we had some sun today.”

“Yes, now let’s see…” Professor Slughorn waved his wand and carefully positioned the dish at the right angle and charmed it to follow the sun. Being a Potions Master with a steady hand, she could trust him to get those careful movements exactly right. The three of them watched as the powdered tungsten glowed a blinding white from the reflected sunlight.

“Looks like it’s working,” Sirius said.

“Yes, we just need to see if it gets hot enough,” Hermione said. The light was so bright that she used magically-darkened glasses to watch it. In the vacuum bubble, the tungsten heated very quickly, and within a few minutes, she saw the pile of powder glow even brighter with its own heat and slump into a liquid drop conforming to the shape of the crucible. “I think it’s working,” she said. “Let’s pull it down.”

They did. The tungsten drop was still white-hot, and they had to be careful to keep it from flowing out of the crucible. It was so hot that it took carefully-applied Cooling Charms before they could even lift Vacuum Charm safely. Luckily, Hermione didn’t have to worry about it sticking. As soon as the Imperturbable Charm was lifted, a solid lump of tungsten fell to the bottom of the glass. She tipped it out into her hand and held it up.

“Well, it worked,” she said.

“Marvellous!” Professor Slughorn exclaimed. “Now that is _not_ something you see every day. This could become a very valuable process.”

“I don’t know about _that_ , Professor. It took a really complicated setup just to do this… All that trouble for less than an ounce of solid tungsten,” she mused to herself. “I guess it completes my collection of elements, but honestly, it would be a lot easier if…”

She froze. No. It _couldn_ _’t_ be that easy, could it?

 _If I could just rearrange the atoms_ , she thought.

She went over the first few steps of the arithmancy in her head. Merlin’s beard, it was! “I am such an idiot!” she groaned. Her magnesium-filtering spell _already_ rearranged the atoms in the soil, converting the metal from the ionic form to the metallic form. She still wasn’t sure where the energy came from, but it worked. Simple molecules couldn’t be that much harder, nor would metallic crystals. And maybe permanent supermagnets, too? Liquid nitrogen? Liquid oxygen? Those might present a different set of challenges, but still—

Wait, she could make _crystals_.

It _couldn_ _’t_ be that easy, could it?

She needed to go back to the drawing board.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Educational Decrees so far:  
> #21: Limits accreditation to prevent students from going to school overseas.  
> #22: Allows the Ministry to fill vacant teaching positions at Hogwarts.  
> #23: Creates the position of High Inquisitor.  
> #24: Gives the High Inquisitor supreme authority over punishments.  
> #25: Bans unauthorised student organisations.  
> #26: Forbids teachers from giving students information outside of their subjects.  
> #27: Forbids teachers from teaching extra subjects.  
> #28: Forbids teachers from participating in continuing education programs during the school year.  
> #29: Bans a schedule of forbidden media.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is a girl’s best friend.
> 
> Yes, Umbridge is still there. Yes, she will get hers in the end. But for now, she’s an arm of the government. Attack her, and she’ll bring the full weight of the Ministry down on your head. Make her disappear, and they could replace her with someone just as bad. Hermione knows this, and she is restraining herself for that reason. It might be more satisfying to just kill her, but the real world doesn’t work like that.

It wasn’t _quite_ that easy.

But it was still well within Hermione’s capabilities.

Step one: separate pure carbon from charcoal (which was mostly carbon to start with). This was easy with her elemental filtering spells. This created what she was pretty sure was powdered graphite.

Step two: use her original magnesium filtering spell as a starting point and create a spell to work in reverse and arrange the carbon atoms back into a crystal structure. She’d already dabbled in this, but she hadn’t realised the full potential until now.

Step three: the spell could arrange carbon atoms into the simple, tetrahedral arrangement of a diamond crystal without too much trouble, but it needed a macroscopic pattern to follow. Otherwise, unless she could visualise the complete crystal like a transfiguration master, she’d wind up with an amorphous lump of aggregated microcrystals. The solution was runes—and what she would later learn was just a touch of alchemy.

She carefully calculated all the dimensions and went back to her mathematical roots, using a ruler and a protractor to draw an orthographic projection of a simple, old single-cut diamond. According to a muggle library book she picked up, that was the typical Renaissance diamond cut, and it was the simplest cut in common use. Because of the refractive patterns, it would appear black to the eye, but it was good enough to start.

Then, there were the runes. Runes to anchor the crystal arrangement spell to the lines and make it form into the desired shape as a single crystal. Runes to correct the inevitable slight misalignment in her drawing and make sure the facets followed the cleavage planes perfectly. Rarely-used numerical runes to define the size of the target. Norse had no numbers, so Roman numerals were used by default—which was a pain in the arse. Everything had to be written as ratios. Ugh. She’d have to look into a better system. She also had to evacuate the air around the target, or the nitrogen would get into the crystal structure and turn it yellow. She didn’t even know what the oxygen would do. It was messy, overcomplicated, and Ron probably could have done it better, but she wasn’t ready to bring anyone else into this.

Step four: once she had tested all the parts she could, she transfered her paper drawing onto a wood panel and cast the spell at Grimmauld Place. It worked.

The graphite powder swirled around, forming into an octahedral shape. Slowly, it settled, solidified, and changed from a dark, matte black to a deep, but transparent lustre. She picked it up—carefully; the corners were sharpened to an atom if this had worked right—and rapped it against the desk. It seemed pretty solid. She tried to scratch it with a knife. The steel wouldn’t mark it. It felt unnaturally cool in her hand, revealing the high heat conductivity of diamond.

It had worked.

It took a week of late nights, research, calculation, and anxiety, but it worked. She could make diamonds by rearranging the atoms in graphite.

And it terrified her.

Despite her apprehension, she modified her diagram to make the diamond bigger. She needed to prove her point in order to impress upon a certain person how serious this was. It worked again.

She sent Dobby with a letter to her parents saying she was working on an urgent project and needed to stay overnight. They weren’t happy, but they said it was alright if she didn’t make it a habit.

She modified her diagram to add more facets to make a Mazarin cut. It worked again, producing a diamond that looked much brighter than the single cut.

Hermione barely made it to Honeydukes before they closed. By the time she got into the castle, it was past curfew. She used the Mathemagician’s Map to evade the patrols, Umbridge, and Peeves, and made it to the door of the one person whose combined wisdom, magical knowledge, and discretion she trusted the most.

* * *

Septima Vector was already in her nightclothes, ready to turn in early, when the chime sounded on her door. Fortunately, it wasn’t the funeral march she had arranged for Umbridge’s approach, but she was still worried when she heard the chime to the tune of the hymn “This is My Father’s World”, which she had selected not for the religious reference, but because it contained the phrase “Music of the Spheres”. It was Hermione who was coming to her in the dead of night.

Septima rushed to the portrait hole and opened it. Her concern jumped when she saw Hermione standing outside, looking pale and scared.

“Hermione, what’s is it?” she whispered. “You’re not to be seen with me.”

“I know, but I had to talk to you,” Hermione whispered back. “It couldn’t wait. Can I come in? There’s a prefect patrol coming this way.” She held up her map.

“Of course, quickly, quickly.” Septima rushed inside. “Tea?”

“Y-yes, please. Chamomile, if you have it.”

Septima put the tea on and joined Hermione in the sitting room. “Hermione, you…Excuse me, but you look awful. What’s wrong? Did something happen to your parents?”

She shook her head: “No, they’re fine. It’s about my research.”

“And it couldn’t wait till morning? Or the next Hogsmeade visit.”

“I…well, I suppose it could have, but I was freaking out. I’m sorry for disturbing you so late—”

“It’s okay, Hermione. It’s good to see you, but please, what did you find that scared you enough to risk coming here after hours just to talk to me?”

“I think I just broke the magical world’s economy.”

Septima stared at her in bewilderment. The only sound in the apartment was the rising whistle of the teakettle a couple minutes later.

“Septima?” Hermione asked. She waved her wand and summoned the teakettle to the sitting room herself. “Septima?” she repeated.

“Theoretically, or did you actually do it?” Septima said.

“Theoretically.”

“Oh, good,” she sighed with relief. “If you _actually_ broke the magical world’s economy, the goblins would kill you. Literally.”

Hermione shuddered. She’d heard horror stories of the goblins, and not just from Professor Binns’s class. They and the other syndicates around the world guarded their monopoly on magical currency jealously. “I don’t want to cause any trouble,” she said. “It’s just that it was so _easy_. Once I realised it was possible, I figured out how to do it in a week.”

Septima knew well that what took Hermione a week could be something other Arithmancers might never even think of in their lives, but still, this sounded extreme, even for her. “Hermione, what do you think you can do that would break the economy?”

She reached into her bag, pulled out a gleaming rock the size of a golf ball, and placed it on the coffee table. “I made this.”

Septima picked it the rock up and examined it. She knew what it _looked_ like, but it _couldn_ _’t_ be, could it? “Hermione, is this…what is this?” she asked.

“As of right now, that is the world’s largest flawless cut diamond. It’s three hundred and twelve carats, completely colourless, perfectly cut, and flawless down to the molecular level.”

She stared in confusion again. “I don’t understand, Hermione. I’ve heard of people transfiguring things into the _illusion_ of precious stones, but it takes a true master to visualise them, and they don’t stand up to cursory inspection. I don’t understand what you did here.”

Hermione shot her a challenging look: “Try to untransfigure it.”

She waved her wand and cast, _“Reparifarge_ , _”_ but nothing happened. She tried _“Finite incantatem,”_ also to no effect. She then began trying stronger untransfiguration spells—spells that were reserved specifically for otherwise-permanent transfigurations, transfigurations of objects to similar objects that would last longer than very different ones, transfigurations with various fixing spells and other enchantments to make them more magic resistant, botched transfigurations that could be hard to reverse. Any transfiguration expert would have a whole litany of spells on hand in case of emergencies. None of them had any visible effect on the diamond. “What did you do to this? Those are all the spells I know.”

“You can wake Professor McGonagall if you want, but I’ll save you the time,” Hermione said. “It’s _not_ transfigured.”

“It’s not transfigured?”

“It’s made from a pile of graphite…I rearranged the atoms.”

Septima’s eyes grew to the size of saucers, staring at the giant diamond. “Oh. Merlin’s. Hairy. Arse.”

“Yeah. Now you know how I feel.”

“How…I mean this is…The greatest alchemists in the world could spend their careers on this. It…it shouldn’t be possible.”

“With alchemy, I’m sure it’s not. But a diamond is just carbon atoms in a certain pattern. And there are plenty of charms to arrange things in a certain pattern. I’ve already been using them for my elemental filtering spells and didn’t realise it. That’s why it was so easy.”

“But those charms couldn’t have made a perfect crystal like this, though,” Septima insisted.

“I probably could have made something close, just by visualising,” Hermione said, “but I didn’t. I used this.” She reached into her bag again and pulled out the carved wood panel she had used to make the diamond.

Septima examined the panel carefully. “So it _is_ alchemy,” she said.

“I wouldn’t know.”

“It is. Runic diagrams like this are exactly the kind of thing alchemists use. But it’s way different from any alchemy I’ve ever seen. I don’t even know what it would do to the field…”

“But I don’t _need_ it, Septima,” she said. “I need the diagram to make a flawless cut diamond, but I don’t need it to make diamond dust. I could turn glass into quartz, chalk into gypsum. I can shape metals without melting them. And I haven’t even tried covalent molecules yet. All _without_ those diagrams.”

“My God. Hermione, do you know what this means? This is a whole new _field_ of magic you’re talking about. I don’t think that’s happened this century.”

“I know. But trust me, I don’t intend on publishing this anytime soon. Do you know what this could do to the magical economy?”

“I’m not sure _you_ do.”

Hermione frowned: “What do you mean, Septima? I can do the maths. That diamond you’re holding is worth hundreds of thousands of galleons by itself. Give me another week, and I can make one that’s worth more than the Malfoys. A month, if I could do it without flooding the muggle market, and I could make enough money to buy and sell the Ministry outright.”

“No you couldn’t,” Septima said automatically.

“Huh?”

“Excuse me. Sometimes I forget what you do and don’t know as a muggle-born. Rather, you could, but the goblins won’t let you convert that much money to galleons. They’re _shrewd_ , Hermione. They know there’s always a chance some muggle billionaire could have a magical child and flood the magical economy with gold, so they limit the amount of money you can convert to galleons each year.”

“Oh…” It seemed so obvious when she put it that way. She’d never even considered that before. If Bill Gates happened to have a magical child—a one in fifty thousand chance, so it was tiny, but worth considering—he might be able to buy up the entire magical world if they let him. Of course, the goblins would have thought about that. “That…that actually makes me feel quite a bit better,” she said. “But what about selling in galleons directly? I could sell that—or several smaller diamonds—in the magical world and tip the economy on its head.”

“No good. There’s a treaty between the Ministry and the goblins that sets it up so the bank fees go higher and higher the more money changes hands. It doesn’t affect you unless you’re rich like most of the Wizengamot, but it’s the same problem. There are plenty of ways a muggle billionaire could destabilise the magical economy from the inside. Granted, if it were only diamonds, the rest of the market would stabilise soon enough, but they wouldn’t appreciate such a shock to the system. If you tried it, they’d tie you up in enough red tape that you couldn’t make any more money than you could converting it from pounds, and worse, they would make the rest of your life a lot harder, too.”

“So if I—hypothetically—wanted to do something with this, I’d have to restrain myself?”

Septima’s face darkened. “Hermione, if you want my advice, don’t do anything with it at all. Probably destroy this diamond if you can remake it so easily. If the goblins find out you can _make_ these things, they’ll be watching you like a hawk. If you disrupt the magical markets, they’ll bring their whole financial apparatus to bear to force you into an exclusivity contract. And if you disrupt the muggle markets, they’ll report you for violating the Statute of Secrecy.”

Hermione gulped and nodded firmly. “I understand, Septima…but what if the muggles can already do this?”

“ _Can_ they?” she said with wide eyes.

“Not that one, no,” she motioned to the giant diamond, “but they can make synthetic diamonds, and I’d bet good money they’ll be able to replicate that within a few decades. That shock to the system is coming whether the goblins like it or not.”

“Oh, dear…That could get ugly.” She sighed heavily. “I worry about you, Hermione. Between the war and the stuff you get up to, I’m worried you’re going to bite off more than you can chew.”

“I know. And I can promise I’ll be careful. I just don’t want to let an opportunity like this go if I can help it. With the war going on, I’m afraid I might need it soon enough.”

Septima sat silently, gazing at the huge diamond. She didn’t like to think about such things. Hermione was right. As a muggle-born she needed all the help she could get in this war, and an independent source of wealth would be a big help. But how she wanted to go about doing it…it struck her as a desperate move—that or it was her boundless eagerness getting the best of her. “I’m not going to convince you to back off from this, am I?” she said.

“I wouldn’t say that, Septima. I don’t want to bring any more trouble on myself. But if there’s any way I can pull this off.”

She sighed again: “I don’t know for sure, but if you want to even try, there are two things you need to do. First, you need to read the laws on doing business in the muggle world _carefully_. You don’t want to make any mistakes there. And second, you need to apply for an Alchemist’s License immediately. You may not think this is alchemy, but it really is. That will protect you from legal action from the goblins if you stay within the restrictions.”

Hermione frowned: “But with the Ministry the way it is, there’s no way they’d give me a license.”

“They will for a student. Here’s what you need to do: tell Professor Slughorn that you want to take Professor Dumbledore’s Alchemy class next year and have him add it to your official education plan. That will get you a Student Permit. Then ask Dumbledore to sign it for you now instead of next autumn. He seems to like you. That’ll probably work.”

Hermione considered this. She hadn’t been planning on telling Dumbledore about this new skill of hers. It was the sort of thing she’d rather keep from someone like him. But she supposed she could tell him the minimum it took to convince him, since then she’d be in business—literally.

And then, maybe she could buy the Twins a nice graduation present.

“Thank you,” she nodded. “And thank you for talking to me. I was panicking a little bit.”

“I’m always happy to help. It’s after curfew, though. Can you get out of here without getting caught?”

“Er…no,” she admitted. “I had a way in, but I can’t get out until morning.”

“Where are you going to sleep?”

“That secret room I told you about. I’ve done it before.”

“You could stay here for the night. I could transfigure the sofa into a bed.”

“That’s very kind of you, Septima, but I would want to impose. I can get everything I need there.”

“Alright then. Don’t tell anyone, but I saw the interview in _The Quibbler_. It was very good.”

“Thank you.”

“You didn’t have any trouble for it, did you? Umbridge said something about sedition.”

“I might’ve had, but Cedric warned me, and I had Dobby take a letter to an Auror I know to take care of anything she tried.”

Septima was clearly relieved by that. “How is Cedric doing? Everyone was shocked when he left.”

“Rough, from what I hear,” Hermione said sadly. “The last I heard, he had a tutor, but his dad’s making him work for the tuition. They apparently had a pretty big argument over it.”

“I’m not surprised, knowing Amos Diggory. I’m afraid more and more of us are starting to get the same idea this week, though—students _and_ teachers. I don’t know if you heard, Professor Trelawney was fired this week.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “No, I didn’t. What happened?”

“Well, Umbridge decided she wasn’t a very good teacher—which unfortunately, I have to agree with. I was afraid your old roommates, Brown and Patil, were going to snap and curse Umbridge, but Dumbledore insisted Trelawney stay in the castle, so she’s not out on the street—and what happened after that was great. He went out to the Forbidden Forest and hired a _centaur_ to replace her. You should have seen Umbridge’s face!”

Hermione laughed loudly at the thought. With Umbridge’s attitude towards “half-breeds”, she must have practically had an aneurysm after that. Her fears assuaged, she used her Map to sneak up to the Room of Requirement and slept in the replica of her bedroom at home until morning. Just before she went to sleep, she had a thought: _Mum and Dad_ _’s twenty-fifth is coming up next week. I should make them something nice, too._

* * *

Hermione went to a different jeweller this time—a more upscale one. It wouldn’t do to have the old jeweller who thought she was a simple local comprehensive student see her like this. She wore her best, most-businesslike muggle clothes, even her hated high heels, and adopted the most poised stance she could before she walked to the shop from Grimmauld Place on Monday.

This jeweller, a Mr. Christopher, looked much more interested than the last one she’d visited, no doubt recognising the greater wealth she was projecting today. “Good afternoon, miss. How may I help you?” he greeted her.

Hermione had thought long and hard over the weekend about how to approach this. She handed over an official-looking business card she had made on her computer. “Good afternoon, Mr. Christopher,” she said. “I represent a new commercial gemological lab looking to get started in the area, and we want to start doing business with a few local jewellers. Our speciality is in manufacture.”

“Manufacture?” Mr. Christopher said, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

“Synthetic gems. Do you deal in them?”

“A little, Miss…Grant,” he read the card. “We try to keep to the natural ones, mostly. Prestige, you know.”

“Of course, but you may change your mind when you see our products,” Hermione replied. “Mind you, we’re just in the testing stages right now—not quite ready to go public, but we needed to make some sample pieces unexpectedly, and we don’t have anyone on staff who can them set yet. We were hoping you would be able to set a few small pieces quickly?” Oddly, she thought, all of that was basically true.

“What kind of pieces? I have some empty settings in the back…”

Mr. Christopher showed Hermione a variety of pieces. She quickly picked out a three-stone anniversary setting for her mum and a pair of gold cuff links designed for a single diamond stud for her dad, all in 18-karat gold. He then asked her what she wanted them set with, and she pulled out a small pouch from which she tipped out six flawless, 1-carat, brilliant cut diamonds. It was a couple of steps up from the Mazarin cut to the fifty-eight facets and circular perimeter of the round brilliant cut, but she’d managed to put it together over the weekend. Mr. Christopher was awed when he looked at them through his loupe.

“Miss Grant, these are…astonishing. I don’t think I’ve ever seen synthetic gems this quality before. Er…forgive me, but these _are_ perfectly legitimate?”

“Naturally. I have the full documentation here.” She pulled out some papers from her handbag, which she had also drawn up over the weekend based on some documents she had cajoled her other jeweller into showing her.

Mr. Christopher looked them over with a critical eye, but he soon accepted them, though he asked her, “Aren’t you a bit young to be working for such a prestigious laboratory?”

“I finished school early,” she said, which was _almost_ true. “I’m just an intern right now, but the Director trusts me with this.”

“Of course, Miss Grant. So, you want five diamonds in these three settings. What about the sixth one?”

“Your payment, Mr. Christopher.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise.

“You’ll want to hold onto it until we go public. It’ll be worth more then.”

“Well, it’s already worth more than the settings, Miss Grant. I’ll have to give you some change.”

“Whatever you think is fair, Mr. Christopher. Our only request is that when you do set it, you put a small engraving on the piece: a lowercase gamma.”

“A lowercase gamma?”

“A serial number. Our name _is_ Archimedes Jewellers.”

“Ah. Of course. When do you want to pick them up?”

“Thursday morning if you can have them by then.”

“Certainly. Let’s get them written up.”

They quickly made a deal, and a few days later, Hermione had her parents’ anniversary gifts in hand. In the meantime, she had stopped by Gringotts and bought some gold, silver, and platinum bullion with her change. That gave her a chance to adapt and practice her atomic rearrangement spells for metalworking and alloying—something she’d eventually want for the more refractory metals. She also successfully did three small engravings on the pieces she’d had set: a lowercase alpha on her mum’s ring and a lowercase beta on each of her dad’s cuff links, and she was ready to go.

* * *

As avid Shakespeare fans, what other day could Daniel and Emma Granger have married on than the Ides of March? Well, possibly St. Crispin’s Day, but after several of their friends had to look up when St. Crispin’s Day was (the 25th of October), they went with the more memorable date. This year was their silver anniversary, but Hermione had a couple of other materials in mind for them. She felt bad that they couldn’t take a nice, week-long holiday this year since she was unexpectedly staying at home, and they were worrying about her part in the war, so she wanted to do something special for them.

She decided to get up early and make them breakfast in bed—not that she was a fantastic cook, but she knew how to fry an egg. She politely asked Dobby not to help as a sign of respect. As she hoped, it made an impression.

“This is wonderful, Hermione,” Mum said. “What brought this about?”

“I just wanted to show you how much I appreciate you two,” she said. “All the ways you’ve supported me over the past five years, and everything. And since you couldn’t go on holiday this year, I wanted to do something to make it up to you.”

“Ah. You didn’t have to do anything for us, Hermione, but this is very thoughtful just the same.”

“Seems like a good way to start our anniversary to me,” Dad agreed. “And we took the day off, so there’s no rush, for a change.”

“I’d offer to soundproof your room, too, but, you know, Ministry interference.”

“Hermione!” Mum said, blushing bright red.

“C’mon, Mum, it’s not like I haven’t heard you two before. Don’t worry, I’ll just put on some music.”

“You, missy, are getting too cheeky for your own good.”

“It comes from having George as a boyfriend, I think. Anyway, when you’re done with breakfast, I have your presents for you.”

“You didn’t have to buy us anything,” Dad.

Hermione grinned. “They didn’t cost me a penny, Dad. In fact, I actually made some money off the deal.”

That peaked her parents’ curiosity. She could tell they were wondering what she was talking about all through breakfast, and when they were done, she didn’t think they could have looked more shocked when they opened their gifts.

“Hermione, they’re beautiful!” Mum gasped. “Is this what you’ve been working on the past two weeks?”

“Some of it. I got the settings done at a jeweller’s in London, though.”

“But these can’t be real diamonds, can they?” Dad said, examining the cuff links closely.

“Oh, they are, Dad.”

“They can’t be, though. These must have cost thousands of pounds. You’re not making that much money, are you?”

“Nope, I told you they didn’t cost a penny.”

Mum gave her a stern look. “Hermione, what did you do?”

She smiled again: “I made them.”

Mum’s mouth dropped open. “You _made_ them?” She thought for a moment. “Didn’t you tell us that magic can’t create money?”

“In simple terms, yes, but diamonds aren’t really money. They’re just carbon, and I’ve been manipulating elements for over a year.”

Their eyes widened. “Then you could make more?” Dad asked.

“Well, yes, but I can’t get too far into it yet. There’s a lot of paperwork involved to make sure it’s all above board.”

Dad just shook his head. “Hermione, you are an amazing young woman. And these are wonderful presents. Thank you.”

“Anything for you two. Have fun today.” She didn’t mention the Protean Charms she’d added to the jewelry, connected to a gold charm she’d attached to her galleon necklace. She’d save that in case of an emergency.

She left her parents to themselves while she got back to her work—and her next project. She was already thinking of a different form of carbon that muggle scientists had been examining recently—a form that some said was supposed to be more than a hundred times stronger than steel.

* * *

“So, Sinistra’s got us doing a big project on that Comet whose name I can’t pronounce,” Harry said in the mirror.

“Hyakutake, Harry,” Hermione told him. “It’s Japanese.”

“Yeah, that one.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been wanting to follow it more closely, but I just haven’t had the time. How is it from the castle?”

“It’s neat. Can’t see a whole lot without the Night Vision Potion, though.”

“Consider yourself lucky you’re in Scotland. I asked Professor Slughorn if we could make that potion, but he said the city lights are too bright for it to be useful.”

“Oh. Too bad. Hey, speaking of the comet, Lavender finally asked to join the D.A.”

“What?” Hermione said in confusion. “How is _that_ related?”

“Apparently, Firenze said the comet means war is coming, and she freaked out about it.”

Hermione smacked her forehead. “You’re telling me she wouldn’t believe Dumbledore, the Boy-Who-Lived, and her best friend, but she’ll believe her _horoscope?_ ”

Harry shrugged his shoulders.

“Augh. I’d like to give her a piece of my mind, but the more people we convince the better. I suppose it doesn’t much matter how she came to it.”

“Well, if you’re okay with her, bring up the contract so she can sign it. And there was one other thing, too. Ginny keeps bugging me to ask if you and Cedric can put out another interview about Umbridge and her quills.”

“Merlin’s pants! I completely forgot about that!” she exclaimed. “Tell her I’m sorry. I was so busy with…” She stopped, not quite ready to talk about that. “Well, I had some problems that were legitimately worrying me, and I had to take care of them. I’ll write to Luna’s dad and Rita Skeeter, but it’s probably too late for this month’s issue. We’ll have to shoot for late April.”

Harry sighed, knowing Ginny would be unhappy about that. “Well, it’s better than nothing,” he said.

* * *

Carbon nanotubes, atom-thin sheets of graphite rolled into tubes only a few nanometres wide, were supposed to be the strongest material ever discovered, though Hermione didn’t know how they would measure up against enchanted weapons or Unbreakability Charms.

Creating individual nanotubes was easy enough—or at least, she thought it was. She couldn’t actually see them. But it only took a different pattern of runes and diagrams to shape the molecular structure. Producing useful fibres from them was harder. She eventually fell back on her experience working with cloth, spinning the nanotubes into nano-yarn and the nano-yarn into nano-rope. Eventually, she made enough layers that she had macroscopic fibres she could actually work with. She put them on a force gauge to test their tensile strength against steel wire, and she found that, while they weren’t a hundred times stronger than steel, they were easily ten times stronger. Of course, while it would be a scientific marvel, even by muggle standards, by itself, ultra-strong rope wasn’t that interesting.

What _did_ interest Hermione, however, was whether she could make more solid object from carbon nanotubes. She had read the legends of goblin-made swords and shields in her search for the weapon that might be in the Department of Mysteries. They were said to be unbreakable, incorruptible, and the blades able to cleave through flesh and bone like a knife through butter. She wasn’t sure she believed it, but she remembered Harry driving the Sword of Gryffindor straight through the extra-tough skull of a basilisk in second year. A blade as sharp and as strong as one made out of carbon nanotubes might be able to equal that feat. Better yet, a shield made from the material would be lightweight, yet able to block powerful curses that would blast through a wall.

The trouble was how to harden the flexible fibres into a blade or shield. She tried weaving the nanotubes into nano-cloth. She tried arranging them in a three-dimensional lattice. Neither worked, but after two weeks of theoretical work and the limited experimentation she could do at Headquarters, she found the solution. It was crude, and it wasn’t easy, but it worked. She had to use her atomic rearrangement spells combined with raw visualisation, picturing adjacent nanotubes bonding with one another. She only had a razor blade-size chunk of hardened nanotubes on her first attempt, but not even a diamond would scratch it. There was just one problem. She realised at once that a full-sized blade would be far too light. It took sharpness _and_ weight to cleave through flesh and bone—if that was truly her desire. If she wanted this to work, any blade she created would need more ballast.

The solution to that, however, was obvious after a little thought. It was the same thing she’d been trying to work with for the past year—once a curiosity, but now an essential: tungsten, the densest metal she could collect in significant amounts.

Well, that is, if she had access to soil where she could cast the spells to filter tungsten out of it without raising red flags at the Ministry. The stuff wasn’t cheap, after all. She couldn’t do it at home, and there was no yard at Grimmauld Place. What she needed was a large expanse of soil in a magical area where she could move about without being seen, and that really only left one option.

* * *

“Happy birthday, George!”

If Hermione was exploiting her parents’ leniency a bit to sneak into Hogwarts to visit his boyfriend on his birthday, she wasn’t too ashamed, since there was a good cause tied into it.

“Hermione! Mmm…It’s so good to see you,” George said, kissing her deeply.

“ _Oh_ —you, too, George…” Hermione said between kisses. She’d told Dobby to tell George to meet her in the Room of Requirement tonight, and his eagerness showed. Their meeting quickly devolved into a snogging session more heated than they had had before, to the point that she had to slow them done before his hormones (or hers, to be honest) got the better of them. It was just so nice to be able to relax and unwind like this for a while, but she had work to do.

“Don’t you want me to give you your birthday present?” she said breathlessly.

“This seems like a pretty good present already,” George mumbled as he tried to kiss his way down her neck.

“This isn’t the present. This is just a bonus.”

“Oh, and what did you get me?” he asked.

“A request.”

He pulled back and stared at her. “A request?”

“I want you and Fred to sneak me into the Forbidden Forest.”

* * *

“I can’t believe you, Little Miss Perfect, would want to sneak into the Forbidden Forest,” Fred said as they crept through the grounds.

“I guess _I_ _’ve_ been a good influence on Hermione, Freddie,” George needled his twin.

“Oi! We’ve both been corrupting Hermione since long before you were dating.” Fred said, then he glanced at Hermione. “Heck of a date, though.” He affected a French accent and said, “So what will your pleasure be, Mademoiselle Granger? Thestral paddock? Centaur colony?”

“There’s a rumour there’s a nest of giant spiders in here, but we’ve never been that deep,” George added.

“No, no, nothing like that,” she said. “Just far enough from the edge that they can’t see us from the castle. Er, I’m sorry, George, but this is kind of a working date. I need several pounds of tungsten, and the easiest way for me to get it is to filter it from a couple thousand cubic metres of soil. I hope you don’t mind being my bodyguards for the night.”

“Not at all, my lovely girlfriend,” George said. “It’s worth it to see you flouting the rules so blatantly.”

“Well, it’s for a good cause—you know, defence,” she said. “I just needed a large patch of soil to do it.” She drew her wand and started casting, _“Filtrochrena Tung Sten. Filtrochrena Tung Sten. Filtrochrena Tung Sten.”_ A fine mist of metallic powder lifted up from the ground and flew into her old jam jar. Tungsten was so dense that it would hold more than enough for her purposes. But if she didn’t have time today, she hoped she would be able to come back some other time for more.

“So just a bunch of this?” Fred asked.

“Yes. I need it for ballast,” she explained. “I’ve been on an artifact creation kick lately. I’ll show you at the end of the year.”

“I can’t wait,” George said.

They chatted about the goings on at the castle for a while. Since the Quibbler interview, things had been surprisingly quiet. Luna had handled her week’s detentions surprisingly well, Hermione knew, and though she now had a scarred hand to match her own, the Twins thought she seemed as carefree as ever. Indeed, Ginny had taken it harder, crying and hugging her friend as she treated and bandaged her wounds. Hermione hadn’t known they were that close, even after knowing them for years, but she could see how Ginny would be defensive of the little blond girl.

George assured her that he and Fred weren’t planning on leaving Hogwarts anytime soon, although they undermined themselves by saying they were saving up their stuff for an “epic” prank, just in case. Hermione advised them to leave it for an emergency.

The D.A. was going well, but she knew that already. Cho, however, was very happy that Hermione was able to sneak Cedric back into the castle to see her. Hermione fervently hoped that things would stay that way until they managed to get rid of Umbridge.

The jam jar was growing heavy in her hand when the trio heard hoof beats. At once, Fred and George each grabbed one of her shoulders and pulled her close to them, drawing their wands.

“What is it?” she asked.

“Shush. Centaur,” Fred whispered.

“Hopefully it’s just one,” George said. “They don’t normally come this close.”

“Hagrid says they’ve been antsy this year.”

“Just stay calm, and whatever you do, be _respectful_.”

The hoof beats slowed, and a tall, multi-limbed creature stepped out of the trees in front of him. He had a man’s torso, standing high above them, bare-chested and heavily muscled. He had a goat-like beard and a flowing black mane of hair down his neck, and Hermione thought he would have been very attractive if he didn’t have four legs, but his waist ended at the shoulders of a sleek, black, equine body. More to the point, he looked angry and had a bow and arrows slung across his back. Hermione tensed. She thought her basilisk-skin coat would probably protect her from arrows, but that wouldn’t help George or Fred.

“Humans!” the centaur said in a nasty voice. “You should not be here. You are not welcome in our forest.”

 _Their forest?_ Hermione thought.

Before she could react, Fred edged forward with a slight bow and said, “Ah, now, I’m sure this is just a misunderstanding, Mister…”

“I am Bane. And _you_ are the Brothers Weasley. You have been a annoyance in our lands for too long.” He stopped and seemed to notice Hermione for the first time. “Who is the female?” he demanded.

Hermione pushed her indignation down. “My name is Hermione Granger, er…Bane. We didn’t mean to intrude. I was under the impression that the Forest was school property.”

“Our laws are not human laws, Hermione Granger. This forest is reserved for our herd,” Bane said. His voice darkened, and he continued, “and our hospitality for you humans has run out of late.”

“Bane, we have always respected your territory,” George said. He still sounded confident, but Hermione could feel his arm shaking. “But Hagrid says Hogwarts has rights to use the Forest as far as the thestral paddock—”

Bane whinnied in protest and stepped forward menacingly. “Hagrid! That human is especially unwelcome after what he has done.”

“Which we had nothing to do with,” Fred said quickly, though Hermione didn’t even know what it was about.

“Then what are you doing here?” the centaur said.

The Twins glanced at Hermione, and she answered in a small voice, “I’m filtering tungsten from the soil.”

“I do not know this ‘tungsten’,” Bane said suspiciously.

“It’s a heavy metal—a trace mineral,” she explained. “It’s not harmful to remove it. If anything, it will help the soil. We…humans use it for its weight. It’s as heavy as gold and much more common.”

“And can you obtain it elsewhere?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“Then do so!” Bane roared. “This forest is not for your use. Leave now, and be thankful we do not harm foals.”

Hermione stood stiffly. She tried to think of something else to say, but Bane’s hand was twitching toward his bow, and George and Fred picked her up by her arms and whisked her away.

“Sorry to bother you—”

“—we’ll be going, now,” they called behind them.

“Phew, that was close,” George said when they got to the edge of the trees. “They really are getting antsy.”

“Not the word I would have used,” Hermione said shakily.

“Well, most of them are nicer than Bane, there,” Fred explained. “Still, if they’re shutting us out of the whole Forest, Dumbledore’s not gonna like that.”

“Too bad they can’t all be more like Firenze, eh?” said George. “He seems like a good bloke…Course, he also had hoof-prints on his chest from when they kicked him out of the herd.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. She hadn’t known the centaurs would be that brutal to one of their own…although perhaps she should have expected something like it given the mythological stories about them. “What did Hagrid do?” she changed the subject.

“Helped Firenze get away from the herd without getting killed,” said Fred. “They say he’s a traitor, I guess.”

“Sorry this didn’t go so well,” George said. “Did you get enough tungsten?”

“Not as much as I wanted, but it’ll do.”

“That’s good. I was scared for you out there.”

She shook her head: “I’m wearing my basilisk-skin coat. If all he had was that bow and arrow—”

“Shush!” George hushed her, casting a furtive glance around. “They’re herd animals,” he whispered. “There could be others around.”

“Oh…”

“Yeah, this is getting out of our depth,” Fred agreed. “Let’s just get back without getting caught.”

When they returned to the castle, they almost made it to the secret passage unseen, but as Hermione watched the Mathemagician’s Map, she unfortunately found they were being manoeuvred to run into someone by the patrols. Fortunately, that someone was Albus Dumbledore.

“Good evening, Messieurs Weasley,” he said when he stepped from behind the corner.

“Good evening, Headmaster,” George and Fred said, trying too hard to sound innocent.

“It appears as if you have had an eventful day,” he continued, clearly knowing exactly what they’d been up to. “You had best return to your dorms quickly. It’s nearly curfew. Miss Granger, I’m glad I caught you. I should very much like you to join me in my office at nine o’clock on Saturday morning. I trust you can make it without being seen?”

“Erm, of course, Professor. I’ll see you then.”

Dumbledore went on his way, leaving her to wonder what new development was coming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filtrochrena Tung Sten: stylised from the Swedish for “filter and purify heavy stone”.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Harry Potter in all accurate memory.
> 
> Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
> 
> The ending of this chapter went in a completely different direction from what I was planning. I was just working my way through the logic of the conversation, and I realised that it couldn’t really go any other way. But it set up the entire end of fifth year, which I didn’t know how to approach until I wrote this, so I think it worked out well.

Hermione arrived in Professor Dumbledore’s office on Saturday completely unsure as to what to expect. She assumed it had something to do with the information Dumbledore wanted her to get from Professor Slughorn, but he’d told her so little, she still wasn’t sure what the point was. She was surprised, though, when she got to the office, to see there was someone else there.

“Harry!”

“Hermione?”

“Ah, Hermione, thank you for joining us. Please have a seat,” Dumbledore said. Harry spun around and stared at the Headmaster. He had clearly noticed him calling Hermione by her first name. “Yes, Hermione and I have been working together over the past few months, Harry,” Dumbledore confirmed to him. “I apologise for not involving you until now, but we had to operate with discretion, for obvious reasons.”

“Professor, what’s going on?” Hermione asked.

“I am pleased to announce that Professor Snape has certified Harry to be proficient in Occlumency.”

Hermione’s eyes grew wide, and she hugged her friend. “Oh, Harry, that’s wonderful! I knew you could do it!”

“Yeah, well, it wasn’t easy,” Harry grumbled. “I’m sorry, Professor, but Snape’s an awful teacher.”

“Professor Snape, Harry,” Dumbledore said, “and while I admit his teaching skills are unfortunately not the best, there are more complications in this case than you know.”

“What do you mean?” he said.

Dumbledore turned to Hermione. “I believe it is time we informed Harry of the full scope of our work together,” he said.

“Oh…yes, Professor,” she said, putting the pieces together. This was the conversation she’d been half-dreading having with Harry for months. Still, she knew it had to be done.

“Hermione? What’s going on?” Harry asked.

She sighed and turned to him: “Harry, last fall, when I started…helping you with Occlumency, I told you I would have to keep secrets from you and manipulate you where you needed to go until you learnt it. To keep our secrets from Voldemort, remember?”

“Yeah, I remember,” he said warily.

“Well, the biggest secret is when I was helping you, I wasn’t doing it blindly. I was actually _teaching_ you Occlumency properly…because Professor Dumbledore was teaching me.”

“What?!” he gasped. “You mean _you_ learnt Occlumency?” She nodded, and he whirled on Dumbledore. “And you taught her? When you wouldn’t teach me?”

“Harry, I told you that I could not risk teaching you myself because it could give Voldemort access to _my_ mind. That was a risk we could not afford, for Voldemort could have learnt how much I know about him.”

“So you stuck me with Snape—sorry, _Professor_ Snape. And you _knew_ he sucked, or you wouldn’t have had Hermione helping me.”

“I have said that Professor Snape has his flaws, Harry, but in this case, it was not his fault.”

“Huh?”

“Voldemort ordered Professor Snape not to teach you properly, Harry,” Hermione explained.

“What?”

“Voldemort didn’t want you to learn Occlumency,” she said. “It makes it harder for him to manipulate you.”

“So?”

“Think about it. Before you learnt Occlumency, when did you get the clearest look into Voldemort’s mind?”

“Well, Professor Dumbledore said it was when he was feeling strong emotions.” He looked to Dumbledore for confirmation.

“Correct, Harry,” the Headmaster said.

“Yes,” Hermione said, “so it stands to reason that Voldemort could look into _your_ mind when _you_ were feeling strong emotions, right?”

Harry shrugged. “I guess so.”

“And when were your emotions running the highest back then?”

“I…well…It was during my Occlumency lessons with Sn—Professor Snape,” he said.

“Exactly. Which means that Voldemort had a front row seat to _how_ Professor Snape was teaching you. He could verify if he was following orders.”

“Oh…So you had Hermione teach me in secret because no one else could, Professor?” Harry asked.

“Very good, Harry,” Dumbledore answered. “Hermione’s eagerness to learn Occlumency for her own purposes led to an unexpected opportunity, and I asked her to help.”

“Then why not just send me to her? Why keep sending me to Snape?”

“For two reasons, Harry,” Dumbledore said, ignoring the slip. “First, you still needed someone to cast _Legilimens_ on you to train you properly, and though Professor Snape’s methods were poor, they were clearly sufficient with the extra help. And second, Professor Snape needed to be kept ‘out of the loop’, as they say, for as long as possible to avoid raising Voldemort’s suspicions.”

Harry crossed his arms and thought this over. Hermione knew he wouldn’t be happy about it, but she hoped he would understand it. “And you?” he asked her. “You went along with this?”

“Believe me, Harry, I was as angry as you were,” she said. “I just did what I could for you?”

“You did?”

“Well, I couldn’t make Professor Snape teach you better, and I couldn’t change Professor Dumbledore’s mind. Helping teach you was all I could do. At least you _learnt_ Occlumency. Would you have managed it otherwise?”

Harry hemmed and hawed at this, but he had to admit he probably wouldn’t have. On his own, Professor Snape was doing more harm than good to his learning process, and he hadn’t been very motivated to practice until Hermione pushed him.

Finally, Dumbledore brought them back on topic: “Now, I know we have had some difficulty reaching this point, but I hope we can agree it has paid off. Both of you have learnt Occlumency—no easy feat. You should be proud of yourselves for that. Since you can now guard your minds, we can now move forward with the lessons I had planned.”

Harry’s ears pricked up at once. “Lessons?” he said eagerly. “You’re going to teach us new defensive spells and stuff?”

Dumbledore chuckled: “Not in this office, Harry.” He motioned around to the many twittering instruments. “It would make quite the mess. No, our greatest weapon is and always has been information. That is why I asked you to learn Occlumency, Harry, in addition to protecting yourself from Voldemort.”

“Information?” Harry said with a frown.

“What information I know of Voldemort’s plans,” he said, “and what we are doing to counter them, things I have learnt over the years about Voldemort’s history, and his strengths and weaknesses. I will not tell you everything, but I will bring you into much more than I have so far—with Sirius’s permission, of course. Indeed, it was he who demanded you be fully informed, though I had planned to tell you much of this when you were ready, Harry. Hermione, you were again an unexpected addition, but a welcome one. For both your dedication and your insight, you deserve to hear this.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said.

“You’re quite welcome. _However_ , the first part of what I have to say, Harry, concerns you personally. If you wish to keep it to yourself, I’m sure Hermione will understand.”

Harry turned and stared at Hermione for a minute, but he said, “I trust Hermione, Professor.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled in response. “Very well. It is time for me to tell you, Harry, what I perhaps ought to have told you four years ago. We have come close to the subject on several occasions, and I have debated since your first year whether I should tell you, but each time, I thought to myself that you were too young. Why should I mar your already-difficult life with the knowledge of this secret—?”

“Professor, what are you talking about?” Harry interrupted impatiently.

“I am speaking, Harry, of the reason Voldemort sought to kill you when you were a baby… _and_ of the prize he seeks in the Department of Mysteries today.”

Hermione gasped. “The weapon?”

“Not a weapon,” he corrected. “Or rather it is, but not in the conventional sense. It is the weapon of information—information Voldemort needs—or so he believes—to ensure his victory.”

Harry continued to stare in confusion. “What does that have to do with me, sir?” he said.

Dumbledore didn’t answer, but he instead rose from his chair and walked to a large cupboard. He opened it and withdrew a large, shallow basin covered inside and out with runes and filled with some not-quite-there fluid. He carefully carried it back and laid it on his desk. “Hermione, we have not had an occasion yet to use this artifact, but I believe Harry knows it well. This is my Pensieve.”

“I—I know, Professor,” she said haltingly. “Harry mentioned it.”

“Of course. We will be using it today. I firmly believe that there are some things that must be experienced to be fully understood. Harry… _Voldemort tried to kill you when you were a child because of a prophecy that was made a shortly before your birth._ ”

Dumbledore paused to let the words sink in. Hermione wasn’t familiar with divination in general or prophecies in particular, but she knew enough not to dismiss it out of hand after what happened in third year. It was a shock to hear that her best friend was involved in one, although given his life so far, maybe it shouldn’t surprise her.

 _“He knew the prophecy had been made,”_ Dumbledore continued, _“though he did not know its full contents. He set out to kill you when you were still a baby, believing he was fulfilling the terms of the prophecy. He discovered, to his cost, that he was mistaken, when the curse intended to kill you backfired. And so, since his return to his body, and particularly since your extraordinary escape from him last year, he has been determined to hear that prophecy in its entirety.”_

“Because then he’ll know how to beat Harry,” Hermione reasoned.

“So he believes. And that is near enough to the truth, for it would direct him on a course of action that we cannot allow.”

“What does this have to do with the Department of Mysteries, sir?” Harry asked.

“Everything. You see, Harry, a copy of the prophecy—and I warn you that this information is classified at the highest levels of the Ministry—but a copy of the prophecy is housed in the Department of Mysteries. And not just anyone can take it from there. Only the subjects of a prophecy may touch it—in this case, you, Harry, and Voldemort himself. Since Azkaban has been breached, Voldemort will have learnt this as well from Augustus Rookwood, the former Unspeakable.”

Hermione put two and two together. “That’s why Sturgis Podmore was caught, wasn’t it?” she said. “He was Imperiused to try to get this prophecy.”

“Correct,” Dumbledore said. “As was Broderick Bode, whom you may have heard about. He was Unspeakable, so he was able to enter the Hall of Prophecy, but he was cursed into madness when he touched it, and he unfortunately was assassinated before he could recover and reveal the culprit. Now that he is better informed, Voldemort will try all the harder to lure Harry into the Department of Mysteries to retrieve it for him so that he does not have to show himself. However, since you have successfully learnt Occlumency, Harry, that will now be much more difficult for him.”

“So where does that leave us?” Harry asked.

“It leaves us in a position where I can safely tell you the prophecy, if you wish.”

“You know it, sir?” he said in surprise.

“Yes, I do, for it was I who witnessed it. It is a rather interesting story, but in the interest of time, what you need to know is that Sybill Trelawney delivered it to me in the winter of 1980. I believe you have some experience with her? It was partially overheard by a Death Eater before he was discovered eavesdropping on us…Though it is with a heavy heart that I burden you with this knowledge, if you wish to hear it, I will show it to you.”

Both Harry and Hermione nodded without hesitation. Dumbledore then touched his wand to his temple and withdrew silvery strands of thought, placing them in the Pensieve. He prodded the surface, and a ghostly image of Professor Trelawney rose out of it, speaking in a harsh, hoarse voice:

_“The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches...born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies...and the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not...and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies...”_

The image vanished, and the office fell silent. Even the twittering devices seemed to be muted. Hermione stared at Harry with wide eyes as he looked down at the basin, trembling slightly.

“Professor…” Harry said quietly. “Did that mean…? What did that mean?”

“It means, Harry, that the one person who can defeat Voldemort was born at the end of July in 1980 to parents who had defied him three times, and was marked by him personally.”

“So it means me?” Harry clarified.

“With the scar he gave you, I think there is little doubt…I am sorry, Harry.”

Hermione’s eyes narrowed in thought. So it was kill or be killed between Harry and Voldemort? But Harry wouldn’t stand a chance against against a wizard fifty years his senior who had been studying dark magic his entire life. And why not someone more powerful and experienced like Dumbledore himself? Something was wrong here. It seemed like the Headmaster was adding two and two and only getting three. “Professor, I don’t understand,” she spoke up. “I can’t believe that Voldemort is invincible but for Harry. He’s still only human, isn’t he? I’d like to see him stand up to heavy machine gun fire or aerial carpet bombing.”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow at her. “Leaving aside the improbability of such weapons being used against him,” he said, “you are correct in that prophecies are not always fulfilled. But again, things are more complicated than you know. If both Harry and Voldemort had both decided to ignore the prophecy, or had never heard it, it would never have been fulfilled. However, Voldemort _believes_ in the prophecy, and even what little he knows—for he did not hear about the marking or the power he knows not—I am sorry, Harry, but it is enough for him to pursue you until either you or he is dead.”

“This is mad,” Harry muttered. “How am I supposed to…I mean, what superpowers am I supposed to have? I—I wouldn’t wish this on you, Hermione, but I’d feel a lot better if someone like you was the one in the prophecy instead of me. You could probably come up with something to stop him.”

Hermione shivered at the thought. She started to say she didn’t feel any more confident than he did, but she thought of the diamond necklace she was working on in secret, and an idea struck her. Maybe she actually did feel more confident. “That’s actually not a bad idea, Harry,” she said.

“Huh?”

“What do you mean?” Dumbledore asked.

“I’ve got ideas. They’re not quite ready yet, but I’m working on ideas for new spells—spells that Voldemort would never think of in a hundred years—spells I’m not convinced he _could_ figure out, even if he saw them.” How many wizards knew atomic theory and chemistry, after all? “And now that you know Occlumency, I can teach them to you.”

“How does that help?” said Harry.

“The prophecy doesn’t say you have to be—you know, genetically better than everyone else. You just have to know something Voldemort doesn’t. And besides, you’re better at practical magic than I am. It should be easy for you.”

Dumbledore stared at her with great interest. “I admit I had not thought of it in quite that way, Hermione,” he said. “I had thought that the power of love was the greatest weapon Harry could wield against Voldemort—which you should not dismiss,” he added when Hermione opened her mouth. “It _did_ nearly destroy him once. But your argument is sound.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Hermione said firmly. “Was there anything else, Professor?”

“Indeed there was,” he answered. “I have an assignment for each of you today. Yours, Harry—though you may join us as well, Hermione—is to view some memories with me I have collected—memories of Voldemort’s past which will, I hope, provide additional clues to defeat him in the present. For you, Hermione, it is time that I told you your assignment regarding Professor Slughorn. I asked you to stay close to him in your studies. I now need you to convince Professor Slughorn to part with any memories he may have of discussing a certain subject with the young Tom Riddle when he was a student…The subject is _horcruxes_. And before you look, you will not find any reference to them in the Hogwarts Library, nor in any reputable book shop. They are not something widely known, nor should they be.”

“But _you_ know what they are, don’t you?” she asked.

“Yes, but it is better if you appear as innocent as possible in speaking to Professor Slughorn. He has become much more suspicious of students enquiring into dark magic since he taught Tom Riddle.”

Hermione wasn’t happy with that, but she could tell Dumbledore wasn’t about to tell her anything more. She’d just have to try her luck with Professor Slughorn. Meanwhile, Dumbledore produced a new memory for them to view. They went inside the Pensieve this time. It was surreal and amazing at the same time—even more like a holodeck than the Room of Requirement. They could sense everything that was happening in the memory as vividly as real life, albeit only within a small area.

The memory and the subsequent explanation only went up to Voldemort’s birth—a tragic tale involving an abused girl whose first language was Parseltongue, a rich muggle aristocrat, and an illicit love potion (clearly a stronger one than the Twins were making). The infant Tom Riddle was abandoned by his father, and his mother died in childbirth, leaving him alone in a muggle orphanage. Hermione didn’t see how any of that was helpful, but Dumbledore clearly thought it was. However, he had to end the lesson at that point since they couldn’t afford to take too much time and raise Umbridge’s suspicions.

Hermione had to leave Harry as well after that. She had work to do, and not just in dealing with Professor Slughorn. She had two other plans to put into action, and only two weeks to do it.

* * *

The first step in her plan was a letter to the Owl Post Office in Hogsmeade she had used to communicate from school to ask about mail forwarding in the magical world. To her delight, it was both simpler and more anonymous than in the muggle postal system alone. All she had to do was walk to the nearest post office to Grimmauld Place and sign up for a box. Her documentation for the Hogsmeade box was proof that she was already “in the system”, and she was able to rent out a muggle P.O. Box under the name Archimedes with no trouble.

The London box was only to be used for forwarding anyway. She would never need to check it in person. Mail sent to it would be forwarded to Hogsmeade, and mail sent from Hogsmeade would pass through it for a muggle postmark before continuing to the muggle word, which was basically standard procedure for wizards anyway. She ordered Dobby to begin checking her Hogsmeade box weekly and bring her any post she received there. She also upgraded the service there to intercept any cursed letters (“Results 97% Guaranteed!”).

The next step was to stop by Gringotts. She wore her most businesslike outfit again, even though it looked muggle, in hopes that it would make an impression on the goblins. It couldn’t hurt to look more professional, could it? When she reached the teller, she got right to the point, since the goblins seemed to like that, too. “Good morning,” she said. “I would like to open a business account.”

The teller hunted around and found a form that he slapped on the counter. “Fill this out,” he said gruffly.

“Thank you,” she replied. “And…will the identity of the account owner be public record?” she asked.

The goblin stopped writing in his ledger. “Do you _want_ it to be?” he replied.

“I’d rather it wasn’t.”

“Section Four. For a nominal extra fee, you will receive a numbers-only account.”

That wasn’t surprising. Gringotts protected its customers. After all, Sirius had been able to buy Harry the most expensive broom in Britain when he was still a fugitive. Hermione looked over the form, being careful to read over all of the fine print. She’d seen more than enough of magical contracts to know to be careful with that sort of thing. The fee for a numbers-only account, she saw, was anything but nominal. If her plan didn’t work out the way she intended, she’d have to close this account after the first month. But the contract otherwise appeared acceptable, and she began filling it out.

“And what is the limit on converting pounds to galleons?” she asked as she worked.

The goblin looked up at her suspiciously. “Why?”

“Because I am expecting some large, irregular payments, and I would like to know what the limit is before starting any account activity.”

“You realise, of course, that Gringotts is not responsible for the consequences of any illegal activities?”

“Of course. And there is no law against what I’m planning to do. I checked.”

“Very well. The limit is ten thousand galleons per calendar year per account owner.”

So no cheating by using multiple accounts. Good to know. A lifetime of converting currency at that rate would put someone on a level with the Malfoys, but no higher, so it was a reasonable restriction. “Will this account be good for processing muggle checks and wire transfers up to the annual limit?”

“Standard service,” the goblin said succinctly.

“I see.” She finished the form, and the teller sent it off. She was careful not to use the Archimedes name for this. She didn’t want that being associated with her Gringotts activity too easily. The goblins would know, of course, but her Alchemist’s License would cover her if they raised an issue. She’d prefer that the Ministry not find out, though. Instead, she set up the vault for a shell company by reusing her Council of Elrond name. A few minutes later, she was set, holding a key to Vault 1337.

“Will that be all, Miss Granger?” the teller asked.

“Ye—Actually, one other small point,” she said as a thought struck her. If she was going to be working with large amounts of money, she should probably know this. She thought for a moment about how to phrase this so the goblin wouldn’t take it the wrong way. “I’m trying to understand the magical economic system better—in general, not just for my business. I assume you have measures in place to prevent people from making free money via arbitrage?” The fixed gold-to-silver ratio of galleons and sickles meant it would be possible to make money just by exchanging currency with the muggle world, so the goblins surely would have thought of that, right?

“Naturally,” the goblin replied.

“What are—” She stopped herself. “Are you authorised to disclose any of them?”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You haven’t tried to melt down any Gringotts coins, have you?”

“Of course not.” She’d considered it, but she hadn’t tried it.

“Good. See that you don’t. The results can be… _messy_. That isn’t our only safeguard, but it’s the one that stops most wizards from doing arbitrage in volume.”

“Of course,” Hermione forced a smile. “Thank you for your time.” She was very glad now that she hadn’t attempted to use galleons and sickles for gold and silver bullion. She left Gringotts without incident.

The papers from Gringotts acted as the same kind of free pass for her pseudonymous company in the banking world as the Owl Post Office did for the muggle postal service—a feature the purebloods usually needed to do any business in the muggle world. With them, she was able to quietly open an account at Barclay’s for an Archimedes Jewellers with a minimum of questions asked. It would have taken her months and quite a bit of money and a good solicitor to do that on her own, but whatever internal connections Gringotts had with Barclays meant her documentation was above reproach.

Now, she had an anonymous post box and a bank account, and with them, she would be able to maintain the Statute of Secrecy, so if everything worked out, that would be all she needed. Her “business” wasn’t incorporated, which was a bit risky, but her only employee was Dobby, and she had practically no overhead, no conventional advertising, and no solicitation. It was more of a freelance kind of model, and her expected profits were high, so there was very little financial danger once she got off the ground. She was ready. Now, she just had to finish her project in time for the Queen’s birthday and hope she attracted the right kind of attention.

* * *

“Alright, everyone,” Harry said in the D.A. “We’ve all been doing well here. The weather’s getting warmer. I think it’s time we started working on the Patronus Charm.” There were excited titters around the Room of Requirement. This was the lesson many of them had been waiting for. Seamus was absent, which Hermione found disappointing, since she thought he could really have used this lesson. But people did occasionally beg off sick, so she hoped he could make it up next week. At least Lavender was there. “As you probably know, the Patronus Charm is the only surefire way to stop dementors. I was attacked by dementors myself last summer, so it can happen, no matter what Umbridge says. Now, this is a very difficult spell. It’s not even on the N.E.W.T. standard, so not all of you may be able to do it, especially the younger students. But Hermione and I both mastered the spell in our third year, so it’s definitely possible.”

“But it’s very difficult,” Hermione cautioned. “I had to practice it every day for months to get good at it, so don’t be discouraged if you don’t master it right away. It takes a lot of power, too, so for the younger students, if you can’t manage it, I want you to practice Cheering Charms. They won’t do much against a dementor, but they’re better than nothing, and they might buy you just enough time to get help from someone who can cast a Patronus.”

“Er, right,” Harry agreed. “Now, the reason the Patronus Charm is so difficult is not because of the incantation or the wand movements. They’re a bit tricky, but the hard part is that you have to be in the right emotional state. You have to focus on a really powerful happy memory. Think of one of the happiest moments of your life, and hold onto it as hard as you can. You really have to focus because it’s a lot harder when you’re in front of an actual dementor sucking your happiness away.”

“What do _you_ use?” someone called out.

Harry hesitated a fraction. “I use the first time I went to live with my godfather,” he said. “…It was the first time I felt like I had a _real_ family…Hermione, do you want to say…?”

“Oh, I, uh…” she stammered. “I use a few things, but my favourite is a holiday I took with my parents when I was nine. But even just remembering a carefree afternoon with my friends works for me. It _can_ be something mundane like that, but it has to have really _deep_ emotional associations to work.”

“Okay, so keep thinking of your happy memory, and watch me carefully,” Harry said. “Spread out so you have room. I’m going to walk you through the wand motions.”

He stepped them through it, one movement at a time, and then he and Hermione walked through the crowd, making corrections here and there, making sure they all had the motions down before they tried the incantation. They were fast learners, and even Dennis, Georgina, and Astoria were trying it, though Hermione doubted they would be able to do it.

“Great. You all look really good,” Harry said when they were ready. “Here’s what it looks like when you put it all together… _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

* * *

Hermione’s other plan involved Rita Skeeter. She and Cedric had agreed to meet the reporter at the Leaky Cauldron—someplace they could actually get a private room.

“I’m surprised you had another interview to offer me,” Skeeter said. “I thought the interview on You-Know-Who pretty well covered it.”

“This story isn’t about Voldemort,” Hermione said confidently. “It’s about Dolores Umbridge.”

Skeeter set down her quill and leaned back. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Granger, if you want to tangle with her,” she said.

“And I’m _not_ playing a dangerous game with Voldemort?” she asked. “Besides, you survived seven years rooming with Bellatrix Black, didn’t you? You’re no stranger to risk yourself.”

Skeeter shuddered at the memory. “Fair enough,” she admitted. “So what do you have to say about Dolores Umbridge that hasn’t already been said?”

Hermione leaned forward: “Torture.”

“Torture?” Skeeter’s eyebrows shot up.

“Unfortunately, legalised torture,” Cedric clarified, “but still torture.”

“You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Pretty-Boy. As I recall, corporal punishment is still allowed at Hogwarts. It’s just Dumbledore doesn’t like it. Unless it’s something suitably…salacious, the public aren’t going to care.”

“How about writing lines in your own blood,” Hermione said bitterly. “Is _that_ salacious enough for you?”

“Your own blood? Truly?”

 _WHACK!_ Hermione slapped her hand down on the table hard. “I didn’t carve these words into my hand four thousand one hundred and ninety-three times just for kicks, Ms. Skeeter.”

Skeeter leaned forward and examined the scars on her hand uneasily. “That could work…” she said.

* * *

The second meeting with Professor Dumbledore was much like the first, except that he first asked Hermione how she was proceeding with her assignment.

“I asked Professor Slughorn some careful questions about his former students, sir. Just enough to establish that he did teach Tom Riddle. He was getting antsy, though, so I didn’t press him any further.”

Dumbledore nodded: “That is a good start. Please keep working on the problem. Now, it is time for another trip down memory lane.”

They viewed another memory of Voldemort, this time when Dumbledore himself had visited the eleven-year-old orphan to introduce him to the magical world. The young Tom Riddle was definitely creepy, a kleptomaniac, and had a history of cruelty to animals—things that in retrospect were clear early warning signs of sociopathy, but perhaps weren’t obvious at the time. It gave some insight into Voldemort’s character, but Harry and Hermione still didn’t think it was very useful. Dumbledore said that Tom Riddle’s social isolation, his drive to be exceptional, and his habit of collecting trophies from his victims would become important later.

Harry decided to press him on the issue now. “Professor, can’t you give us something more?” he asked. “I get that you want us to be informed and all, but I don’t see how psychoanalysing Voldemort by itself is going to beat him.”

“Not by itself, Harry, but that he shows certain predictable behaviours will be vital,” he answered. He checked the time and considered for a bit. “I think we have time to view one more memory,” he said, and he pulled another memory from his collection.

This memory was one of the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle meeting his uncle, Morfin Gaunt, and questioning him about his heritage. Hermione placed the date at just weeks after he’d killed Moaning Myrtle. Riddle had stolen Morfin’s ring—supposedly a priceless family heirloom—and had also framed his uncle for murdering his muggle father and grandparents. It was then that Riddle had learnt of the existence of Slytherin’s Locket, which his mother had sold to Borgin and Burkes and got ripped off for it.

Hermione was shocked that one of the potential weapons on her list was already known and so casually discarded. Where had it gone? Had it turned up again? Honestly, she didn’t even know what it did, so maybe it didn’t matter, but it did suggest that even though Voldemort was after the prophecy now, he may have been collecting powerful artifacts for many years. Somehow, that seemed even worse than the prospect of one powerful weapon in the Department of Mysteries.

Harry was a little more practical. “I don’t understand,” he said. “Riddle was still underage. How come the Ministry didn’t detect his underage magic when he killed his father?”

“The Trace, Harry, only detects where magic was performed, not who cast it,” Dumbledore said. “The Ministry knew where Morfin lived, and, doubting that a child could cast an Unforgivable Curse, they assumed that he had cast the spells, even though they were following Tom’s movements.”

It wasn’t until days later, when it was too late to question him, that Hermione noticed Dumbledore’s slip: the murders hadn’t happened at the Gaunts’ house. They had happened at the _Riddles_ _’_ house, where Tom’s magic certainly would have been noticed.

There must be a way to break the Trace.

* * *

The Patronus charms were going well. Cho Chang was the first to cast one successfully, although Hermione suspected that Cedric would have been if he didn’t have to do it left-handed. Luna succeeded as well, although Hermione was disappointed that it was something as mundane as a rabbit. Dean Thomas nearly had it, as did several others. However, the majority of the D.A. were still producing only wisps of silver mist.

Then, everything went to hell.

The door of the Room of Requirement opened and closed again on its own, which was strange. People didn’t normally come in this late, or invisibly. Hermione looked around to see who had entered, but she saw no one new until she spotted a pair of huge cobalt blue eyes staring up at her. Sonya was there, but the little blond elf looked more scared than she’d ever seen her and was shaking from head to toe. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Sonya! What’s wrong?” Hermione said urgently.

“Miss Hermione! Sonya had to…had to…but the house elves is ordered not to tell…”

Something was very wrong, and Hermione had a sinking feeling what it was. She thought fast. “Dobby!”

 _Pop!_ Dobby appeared in front of her. “Yes, Miss Hermione?”

“Sonya, can you tell another elf?”

“Yes, Miss Hermione!” She rushed over and whispered something in Dobby’s ear.

“Professor Umbridge is coming!” Dobby yelped.

Everyone stared at him in horror.

_“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?” Harry bellowed. “RUN!”_

The whole D.A. dashed for the exit, but Hermione didn’t. She ran to the back of the Room and bent over the Mathemagician’s Map. She usually left it open, but she rarely checked it. She spotted Umbridge’s and Filch’s dots at once. “She’s coming from the south corridor,” she shouted. “Take the staircases on the north side of the castle, and you can get around her. It’s almost curfew, though. Hide out in the Owlery or the library if you can’t make it back in time and say you were running late.”

She folded up the Map and checked to make sure the D.A. member list was secure in her robes, then she raced for the exit herself. It was just their luck Umbridge was smart enough to silence the elves. It was lucky she had Dobby.

“Granger!” she heard a voice call, but it was lost in the crowd. “Granger!” She felt a hand grab her arm, and she turned around. It was Daphne Greengrass leading her sister by the hand. “Granger, you have to hide Astoria!”

“What?” Hermione said.

“Granger, I know what Umbridge does with those quills of hers. I’m afraid if she gets her hands on Astoria, she won’t listen to Madam Pomfrey. She could be really sick.”

Yes, being forced to write several hundred lines with the Black Quill would be really bad for someone with severe anaemia, Hermione reasoned. But what could she do in this situation? She needed to get out right away. If Umbridge found _her_ , she might have an excuse to have her arrested. “I don’t know if I can hide her in the castle, Daphne,” she said. If the Room of Requirement was compromised, no place was completely safe. The safest place would require running up ten or fifteen flights to the shifting rooms above the Great Tower. Astoria might not be able to handle it.

“Then take her _outside_ the castle,” Daphne said.

Hermione stopped short. “Really?”

“Yes! Just do it! Please. If you have her back before breakfast, I can deal with Snape.”

Hermione quickly calculated the timing. It would be possible. And Snape was a member of the Order—a spy, but a member nonetheless. “Okay,” she said. “If Snape gives you any trouble, tell him I’m protecting her on Dumbledore’s orders.”

Now, Daphne stopped short. “What? Seriously?”

“Trust me. It’ll work.”

“Is that _true?_ ”

“Of course not, but _I_ can deal with Dumbledore. Come on, Astoria, we need to hurry.”

They ran, Hermione leading Astoria by the hand. The young girl was breathing hard with just a little exertion, and she nearly stumbled going down the stairs. Hermione watched the Mathemagician’s Map for any patrols, praying they wouldn’t be caught. She had to double them back and hide in a broom cupboard when she saw Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson coming their way. Astoria was panting, and she had to tell her to try to be quiet, but they weren’t noticed. Only when Malfoy and Parkinson had safely rounded the corner did they slip out.

“Come on, Astoria, just a little farther,” Hermione whispered. She managed to get the younger girl to the One-Eyed Witch Passage on the third floor, and they ducked inside. Cedric was long gone, so it was just the two of them.

Astoria blanched when she saw the long staircase. “Oh, Merlin,” she whimpered, “how far down does that go?”

“Down to the Lake level and then some, but don’t worry; I’ve got a broom.” Hermione sat Astoria down on the broom in front of her to keep her from falling off, and they flew down the passage.

“Where are we going?” Astoria asked.

“The passage comes out in Honeydukes’ basement.”

“Can we get out from there?”

“Yes. I have connections with the owner.”

About fifteen minutes later, they were out on the street in Hogsmeade. In the lamplight, Hermione finally stopped to examine Astoria. She was deathly pale, trembling, and still out of breath. She looked like she was ready to collapse. “Oh, God, you need to lie down, Astoria.”

“Need to get out of here,” she mumbled. “Can’t just stand around here.”

“Well, we can’t go to the hospital. They’ll tell the school where we are. And I’m guessing your parents won’t be too chuffed to see you collapse on their doorstep.” Astoria frantically shook her head. _And Headquarters is out of the question_ , Hermione thought, so there was only one other place that could give her the help she needed. “I’ll have to take you to my house.”

Astoria squeaked and nearly fell over, but Hermione caught her and propped her up, putting her arm over her shoulders. “Your _muggle_ house?” Astoria said.

“Yes. It’s fine. My parents don’t have anything against purebloods. And they have a little bit of Healer’s training.”

“‘M fine,” she mumbled she mumbled in protest.

“You need help, Astoria. My parents are the only people we can go to without getting caught.” She dragged her to the street and summoned the Knight Bus.

“Blimey,” Stan Shunpike said when he saw Astoria. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine. It’s, uh, past her bedtime,” Hermione said. “Just take us back to Crawley.”

“Gotcha.” Fortunately, Stan wasn’t too bright.

For once, Hermione was glad that the Knight Bus had actual beds in it at night despite the fact that they slid all over the place. She laid Astoria down in the first one over her continued protests and checked her pulse. It was racing, but it was steady.

“I hate you,” Astoria grumbled as the bed shifted around.

“No, you don’t.”

She glared at her, but she had got some of her colour back by the time they made it to Hermione’s house. Still holding her up, she pulled her up to the door where her mum greeted them.

“Hermione—who’s this?”

“This is Astoria Greengrass, Mum. She’s out sick.”

“Goodness! I’ll call a doctor—”

“No!” both girls cried at once. “I sneaked her out of school, Mum,” Hermione explained. “No one can know she’s gone.”

“But if she needs help—”

“She’s not in danger, Mum. She just needs some rest. Her sister would’ve told me if it were different. She has some kind of magical anaemia, and the stress of escaping was too much for her.”

“Escaping?”

“Long story. She needs to lie down first.”

“Alright, alright. Just lay her on the sofa. Astoria, was it? My name is Emma Granger. This is my husband, Daniel. You’ll be safe here. How old are you?”

Astoria eyed Hermione’s parents warily as they started to check her vital signs. “Fourteen,” she said.

“Go easy on her,” Hermione said softly. “She’s a pureblood. She’s not used to muggles.”

“That looks like severe anaemia,” Dan spoke up with concern. “Do you know what’s causing it? Are you getting treatment?”

Astoria stayed tight-lipped. “I get potions from Madam Pomfrey.”

Dan and Emma looked back and forth between her and Hermione, hoping for something more.

“Astoria, you don’t have to tell them if you don’t want,” she said, “but my parents have muggle Healer’s licenses. They’re sworn to secrecy just like Madam Pomfrey.”

The girl seemed to go limp with defeat and sink into the sofa. “It’s complicated,” she said haltingly. “My…my great-grandmother was cursed during a blood feud. It was a progressive blood draining curse. It nearly killed her, and even after she recovered, she was frail and sickly the rest of her life, and she died young…before she was forty, I think.”

“But how does that affect you?” Hermione said.

“Curses like that can…resurface after a few generations…and Grandfather says I look just like her…”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione said, aghast, “there’s a spell that can curse someone’s _descendants?_ ”

Astoria shook her head weakly. “Not a spell. Some kind of cursed object or ritual. They’re really hard to make that powerful.”

“Still…” That was a whole new level of horror to the magical world. That it could get into your genes…She shivered. Somehow, there was a dark ritual that had altered or affected Astoria’s ancestor’s DNA, before either wizards or muggles knew what DNA was, no less, allowing the curse to be passed on to her descendants. And when a girl was born to the Greengrass Family with similar enough genes—being a pureblood, Hermione would bet there was a cousin marriage involved—it reappeared in her blood.

Chronic anaemia, weakness, and a shortened life expectancy—less than forty years—that was a terrible burden for a young girl. She could hardly wrap her mind around the horror of an old feud and a curse that was still killing people a hundred years later.

Although at that, she had to wonder…muggle scientists had been talking about gene therapy for years. The Human Genome Project was going strong. Someday, it might be easy to identify the damaged gene and repair it—if the problem wasn’t too…magical. Perhaps Astoria would live long enough to benefit from muggle medicine. Wouldn’t that be ironic?

“Dan, I’m concerned she might need oxygen,” Hermione’s mum snapped her out of her thoughts. “She’s stable for now, but I’ll feel better if we give her some.”

“I could run out to the practice and get a tank in about twenty minutes,” Dan said.

“Yes, I think you’d better.”

Dan quickly grabbed his keys and hopped in the car while Emma and Hermione tended to Astoria. Hermione could tell she was in bad shape. The escape must have been harder on her than she’d thought. But her dad soon returned with a portable oxygen tank and held out the mask to Astoria. “Try breathing through this,” he said. “It’s designed to help you get more air.”

Astoria studied the contraption suspiciously, but she apparently figured the muggles wouldn’t use anything too dangerous, so she pressed the mask against her face and drew a couple of tentative breaths. Within seconds, her eyes widened in shock, and she sat up partway. “Merlin’s beard!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t know muggles could do this. I haven’t felt this good in ages.”

“Now, take it easy,” Dan warned. “You have to be careful with that. Let us know if you start to feel light-headed.”

“It’s good that that works for you,” Emma said. “I’m still a little worried you need professional help. In one of our hospitals, they’d give you some other medicines and maybe a blood transfusion if it was bad enough.”

“What’s a blood transfusion?”

“You don’t want to know,” Hermione jumped in before her parents could explain. “Wizards are old-fashioned about that,” she whispered. And privately, she wasn’t sure what a blood transfusion from a muggle would do to a wizard…although muggle-born children must have them from time to time before they’re told about magic. Maybe she should add that to her list.

“Well…now that she’s okay, what happened, Hermione?”

Hermione sighed. It was time to come clean—at least mostly. “Mum, Dad, the Defence group is over—the one I told you about. Umbridge found us out. Harry might be expelled…A lot of people might be expelled. And if they’re not expelled, you can bet they’ll get detention with the Quill. Daphne—that’s Astoria’s sister—told me to sneak her out because she couldn’t handle that with her condition. I don’t know how Umbridge knew…wait, I _do_ know.” She took out the Dumbledore’s Army contract, fished for a homemade wand, and touched the parchment. (She was pretty sure such a tiny amount of magic wouldn’t register at the Ministry.) “Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country,” she said.

The list of names appeared, thirty-four strong, now, but one of them was marked in red—traitor: Seamus Finnigan.

* * *

“I wrote about my concerns to Mr. Finnigan’s mother,” Dolores Umbridge explained. “She informed me that she had given Mr. Finnigan explicit orders not to associate with Mr. Potter for fear of his unstable nature. Tonight, I gave them the opportunity to speak directly through the Floo in my office. Mrs. Finnigan was able to convince her son to inform on Potter’s illegal group despite the magical contract. I of course promised them the best Healers’ care would be provided to reverse the damage, and Mr. Finnigan will receive immunity from punishment for his involvement.”

Harry glared at Seamus across the office. The boy was sitting with his arms crossed and painful-looking angry red pimples spelling _SNEAK_ across his face. Hermione hadn’t been playing around. Unfortunately, the damage was done. The D.A. was over, its hiding place outed, and Harry was sure he was about to be expelled. Cornelius Fudge himself had come to take him, along with Kingsley Shacklebolt, some Auror named Dawlish, and, to add insult to injury, Percy Weasley.

He was thankful that Hermione had escaped. He was sadly not surprised that he’d been caught himself. It was that famous Harry Potter luck plus the fact that he would’ve been Umbridge’s number one target. The real consolation was that he was the sole member of Dumbledore’s Army in the Headmaster’s office right now—besides the Sneak, that was.

Seamus trembled a little under Harry’s death glare. “Sorry, Harry,” he muttered, “but I didn’t want to be in this to start with, and I couldn’t go against me mam.”

“Yeah, remember that when Voldemort comes for you,” he growled.

“Mr. Potter! You are in no position to talk,” Umbridge said. “We will finally be rid of your lies—you and all your little delinquent friends.”

“Excuse me, Dolores,” Professor Dumbledore interrupted. “Did Mr. Finnigan tell you who was in this alleged group?”

“He only mentioned Potter, Granger, and the former Head Boy Diggory by name, Professor, but he testified there were at least two dozen more!”

“But you have no other names,” he replied. “And as Miss Granger and Mr. Diggory are no longer students at Hogwarts, you have no jurisdiction over them.”

“I’ll have Granger brought in for her assault on Mr. Finnigan,” she said.

Harry’s heart started racing, but Dumbledore dispelled that at once: “Magical contracts are legally protected, Dolores. You have no grounds to detain Miss Granger.”

“Fine, Headmaster, but I’ll find out who the others were. If Mr. Finnigan can’t remember the names, I’ll just question Mr. Potter—”

“Need I remind you that use of Veritaserum on minors is prohibited?” he said.

Umbridge closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Harry could tell Dumbledore was getting to her.

“Diggory’s over age,” Fudge pointed out. “We can question him.”

“And do you have probable cause that Mr. Diggory violated any laws, and not just Ministry Decrees, Cornelius?”

“Trespassing on the castle grounds—” Umbridge started.

“Mr. Diggory has a standing invitation from me to visit the castle.”

“Hmpf. We’ll need another Decree for that. Weasley, make a note. In any case, we still have sufficient evidence to expel Potter. You will not be able to corrupt the youth of magical Britain any longer.” She laid a fat, multi-ringed finger on his shoulder in what seemed to Harry to be the creepiest way possible, and something inside him snapped.

“Do I have time to pack up?” he said.

“What?!”

“Mr. Potter!” McGonagall gasped.

“Harry,” Dumbledore warned.

“What? Go ahead and expel me, Professor. I don’t need to be part of your little police state. I’ll go live with my godfather and ask Hermione’s tutor if he’ll take on another student. Or are you going to forbid me from that, too?”

Dumbledore and McGonagall stared at each other in shock. While Sirius had a flat in London for show and a mailing address, they both knew what his words meant. He would be at Grimmauld Place, under the Fidelius Charm, so safety wouldn’t be an issue. He would be learning from Professor Slughorn, who would be thrilled to have him as a student, so he would still be educated. But worst of all, it meant that school had grown so intolerable for him that the boy who once would have given anything to stay there for the summer now felt he was better off leaving it before the term was over.

Dumbledore wanted to speak, but upon seeing Harry’s face, he thought better of it. Instead, he turned to Umbridge and spoke gravely, “Congratulations, Dolores, Cornelius. It would seem that you have outmanoeuvred us at last. As you have final authority, I cannot stop you from expelling Mr. Potter. However, I remind you that he has not broken any laws, so the Aurors are unnecessary. I would also ask that Mr. Potter be allowed to return for his O.W.L. examinations—something you would need Madam Marchbanks’s approval to overrule in any case.”

Umbridge grumbled a bit. Harry was sure she was planning to arrest him, but she apparently decided having him out of the castle was enough for now. “Of course, Headmaster, there’s no cause to change that at this time…Harry Potter, you are hereby expelled from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”


	29. Chapter 29

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The JK Rowling is cast.
> 
> I actually wrote McGonagall saying “The die is cast” before I saw that “Alea iacta est” was the password in the video game on the wiki.

“Minerva, please escort Mr. Potter to Gryffindor Tower to collect his belongings, and then to his godfather’s residence, if you don’t mind,” Dumbledore said.

“Y-yes, Headmaster,” McGonagall said shakily. She looked over at Percy and said in her sternest voice, “Do you see what you’ve done, Mr. Weasley?” Harry thought he saw Percy flinch.

“We will be sorry to see you go, Harry. Stay safe,” Dumbledore continued.

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied. “Oh, and Umbridge? I want my broom back when I leave.” And for once, he didn’t have to call her “Professor”. That felt good.

But his good mood was fleeting. He knew he was doing the right thing. In fact, things would be better for him in many ways, but it meant leaving his friends behind. With _her_. And beyond that, the sheer indignity of being expelled by _that woman_ for doing the right thing grated on him. Part of him wanted to stay, no long to spite her, but for Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna, and the Twins. But it was too late for that.

“Mr. Potter, I’m disappointed that you chose to go along with that,” Professor McGonagall said as she escorted him through the corridors.

“Did you have a better idea, Professor?” he said bitterly.

“I’m sure the Headmaster could have found a way.”

He shook his head: “He lost control a long time ago. Umbridge is the Supreme Leader, isn’t she? Any power he has she can take away with another Decree.”

McGonagall thought for a minute. “You could have pressed the matter in court,” she said.

“What court? The Wizengamot? The same one that tried to railroad me and kicked Dumbledore out of office? No thanks, Professor.”

“It would have bought you _time_ , Mr. Potter. Maybe even delayed until the end of the school year.”

“Honestly, I’m not that mad,” he tried to convince himself. “It doesn’t hurt me personally that much. And I’ll get away from _her_. I’m just sorry I have to leave my friends.”

“Be that as it may, Mr. Potter, I promise you that I will personally see to it that your expulsion is expunged from your record once the Ministry comes to its senses.”

“Thanks, Professor.”

“I’m sure the Headmaster would also tell you that it is imperative you _stay_ at Headquarters unless the Order approves you to travel. With You-Know-Who after you as he is, it would be far too dangerous for you to wander off.”

“Yeah, I get it,” he said.

They came to the portrait of the Fat Lady. “I suppose the die is cast,” McGonagall sighed to herself.

“Correct,” the Fat Lady said, and the portrait swung open. McGonagall rolled her eyes. The password was _supposed_ to be in Latin.

Everyone looked up when Harry stepped inside. Ron and Ginny rushed to his side at once, demanding answers. “We thought you were done for, mate,” Ron said. “What happened in there?”

“Ron. Dorm room. Now,” Harry barked. Ron flinched, wide-eyed, and quickly following him and McGonagall up the stairs with Ginny hot on his heels. They arrived in his room, and Harry pulled out his trunk and started throwing clothes into it.

“Harry, what’re you doing?” Ron demanded.

“I’m leaving.”

“What?”

“I’ve been expelled.”

“WHAT?!”

“NO!” Ginny rushed forward to grab him, but he pushed her back as gently as he could.

“Seamus ratted us out,” he explained. “Umbridge told his mum on him. He’s got the pimples and everything.”

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed.

“They caught me, so there was no way she wouldn’t expel me. We just got lucky they didn’t get anyone else. Shacklebolt Confunded him so he couldn’t remember anyone else’s names.”

“Harry, you can’t leave!” Ginny hugged him close. “You can’t leave me!”

He paused and kissed her, just briefly. “I have to, Ginny,” he said. “I’m going to Headquarters. I’ll be able to study with Hermione with Professor Slughorn. Here, I want you to take this.” He handed her his communication mirror, and she looked up at him in surprise. “I’ll be able to call you on it from Sirius’s mirror. Be sure to share it with your brothers.”

At that, Ginny threw her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

“Oi!” Ron said.

“Ahem!” McGonagall cut them off.

Ginny backed away, blushing furiously. “Erm, sorry, Professor,” she muttered.

“Ron, take the Map,” Harry continued, thrusting the Marauder’s Map into his hands. And take my coin, too. It’s the master. You’ll be able to send messages with it. But whatever you do with it, _don_ _’t get caught!_ ”

“I second that, Mr. Weasley, Miss Weasley,” McGonagall said. “We cannot afford any more expulsions.”

“Plus our mum would kill us,” Ron said.

“It’s even more serious than that, Mr. Weasley,” she said. “I’ll be frank: Professor Umbridge is looking for a reason to fire the Headmaster. With further expulsions, she may be able to charge mismanagement to do it.” _Which I_ _’d better warn the other heads to tell their students_ , she thought to herself. _We can_ _’t have Potter setting an example._

* * *

“Potter was expelled?” Voldemort asked.

“Yes, my Lord,” Snape replied. It was information that would be public knowledge soon enough, so he only stood to gain by telling the Dark Lord a few hours early.

“And where is he going?”

“He’ll be back under the Fidelius Charm by now. He expressed an intent to join Granger in her private tutoring.”

“I see. But how will he take his O.W.L.s? They are normally held only at Hogwarts.”

“He will be allowed to return to the school to take them.”

“How interesting,” Voldemort replied. “You do well to tell me this, Severus. Inform me of the examination schedule as soon as it is finalised.”

“Of course, my Lord.”

* * *

Hermione sneaked Astoria back into the school early the next morning. Fortunately, the girl had recovered quickly. A few minutes of oxygen therapy had gone a long way, and she was well-rested and ready to go. Only, they didn’t know what they would find when they got back into the castle. They’d had to leave Hermione’s house before the _Daily Prophet_ arrived. Had all of Dumbledore’s army been given detention? Had they been expelled? Had Dumbledore himself been sacked?

There _was_ a new Educational Decree on the wall, but it wasn’t what Hermione expected.

 

_By Order of The High Inquisitor of Hogwarts_

_To avoid interference in the educational process, students enrolled in educational programs outside of Hogwarts may not visit except for Ministry-sanctioned educational events._

_The above is in accordance with Educational Decree Number Thirty._

_Signed by:_

_Dolores Jane Umbridge_

_High Inquisitor_

 

Hermione stared. Where had _that_ come from? The only person it affected was Hermione herself, although if that woman knew about the D.A., she would have plenty of motive to want to keep her out of the castle. But then why would they need to put it up _inside_ the school? Then she caught herself. It would make sense to do that if Umbridge expected her to come back to the castle and see it. And if she was expecting that, she was probably planning to _catch_ her.

“Crap! I have to get out of here!” she exclaimed. “Astoria, you’ll have to go on your own from here. If Snape gives you a hard time, tell him Dumbledore ordered me to keep you safe.”

“You’re really not joking about that?” she said.

“Trust me, it’ll work. Bye, Astoria. I’ll see you—hopefully.”

She raced home. It looked like she was completely isolated from Hogwarts now. It only got worse when she got back and her dad showed her the front cover of the _Daily Prophet_. It turned out she _wasn_ _’t_ the only person affected by the new Decree.

_HARRY POTTER EXPELLED!_

* * *

She got the full story out of Harry on Thursday at Headquarters. Mrs. Weasley had pitched a fit, of course, and Sirius said he wasn’t sure whether to be disappointed or proud that Harry had got in more trouble than the Marauders ever had for a worthy cause. In retrospect, she supposed she should be thankful it wasn’t worse. Only Harry had been expelled, and they hadn’t had enough evidence to punish anyone else, although Seamus had been withdrawn from school for his own safety and so Healers could try to break the curse Hermione had put on him.

 _Not likely_ , she thought. Curses often had only one countercurse because the differential equations used to create them often had a unique solution. It was what separated them from simple hexes. A curse could be overpowered or disentangled in many other ways, as Cursebreakers knew well, but it was much harder than it was if you knew the counter, and in the flexible medium of parchment, Hermione had found a counter the Healers might never figure out (though Seamus’s muggle father might): muggle acne medicine.

She praised Harry’s foresight in giving his mirror to Ginny and the Marauder’s map and his coin to Ron. She was a little worried they might try something unwise with them, but it was good that they were still able to communicate.

Harry had started his lessons with Professor Slughorn, who Hermione was not surprised to find was just as ingratiating with Harry as with her, although he was probably a little disappointed that Harry had not inherited his mother’s talent for potions.

“I was hoping I could do some of my lessons with you, Hermione,” Harry said. “You could help me out, maybe—but your schedule’s really weird.”

“It’s not ‘weird’, Harry,” she admonished. “I’m doing a compacted schedule because I can only come two days a week. You can probably join me for some of the classes, but I’m doing them all at different paces, so I don’t know how well it would work out.”

“Couldn’t hurt to try, though,” he said.

“No, I suppose not.”

They tried it, with limited success. Of the three classes Hermione was studying that day, Harry could easily keep up with her in Charms, but wasn’t taking Ancient Runes, and he didn’t have a hope in Potions. It was too bad. He said he was quite a bit better without Snape breathing down his neck, but he would need a lot of remedial tutoring to get his work up to the O-level he would need to for the Auror track. The following Monday, they would learn that Harry could just as easily keep up in Defence, and he managed well enough with the Magical Creatures and Herbology theory lectures, but Hermione’s deeper theoretical understanding of Transfiguration put her well ahead of him there.

Meanwhile, on their first day of lessons together, Hermione asked Harry to mirror-call Ginny when they finished up for the day.

“Harry Potter,” he called on the mirror, and she looked at him queerly until she remembered that the mirror he was holding was enchanted to respond to “Sirius Black”. This was getting confusing.

“Harry! And Hermione!” Ginny said cheerfully when her face appeared in the mirror.

“Hi, Ginny. How are you?” Hermione asked.

She frowned a little. “We’re getting by. Things have been pretty weird the last couple days. Half the school’s scared because Umbridge finally managed to expel Harry, but a lot of the sixth- and seventh- years are starting to talk about how he and Diggory had the right idea getting out.”

“They can’t do that,” Harry said. “McGonagall said if too many people leave—”

“She could sack Dumbledore for mismanagement,” Ginny finished. “I know; she told us too. But I don’t know if we can stop it. A lot of people want to be rid of her. In fact, I heard a rumour that a seventh year Ravenclaw jumped up in the middle of class and challenged her to a duel for his N.E.W.T. mark.”

“He did _what?_ ”

“That’s just the rumour. They say Roger Davies restrained him from cursing her and tried to pass it off as stress, and he only got detention, but no one seems to know if it’s true.”

“It would kinda prove people are in danger of being attacked in class, though, if a student attacked her,” Harry said with a smirk.

Ginny giggled: “That’s the other rumour going around: that someone said that to Umbridge’s face in class…and also got detention.”

“Either way, it’s not a good sign,” Hermione said. “But can she really pin it all on Dumbledore?” Hermione asked. “I mean, I’m sure that’ll be the official line, but will it stick if a lot of people leave the school? If they leave, that’ll be more people who can tell their stories to the press, and with more people paying attention to _The Quibbler_ now…”

Ginny shrugged. “You probably know better than I do. Maybe they’ll pass another Decree to keep control or something.”

They might do that, Hermione thought. But on the other hand, if too many sixth- and seventh-years left the school at once, there wouldn’t be enough tutors to teach all of them. It might be self-regulating for people who actually needed their N.E.W.T.s for their future careers. Of course, they might be able to sack Dumbledore with only a few people leaving. It was a very rare and unusual event, after all.

It was like playing chess, except she couldn’t see all the pieces.

“What about George and Fred?” she asked.

Ginny frowned again. “Maybe you should talk to them for yourself.”

A couple minutes later, the Twins appeared in the mirror. “Hermione, I’m telling you, we’ve got to get out of here,” Fred said at once. “I don’t care if we don’t have money or anyplace to go. I’ll take Mum over Umbridge. We don’t even have the D.A. anymore! What is there to stay here for?”

Hermione sighed heavily. “That’s not a good idea,” she said. “Look, Fred, I can’t tell you what to do. And honestly, I can’t tell you what to do either, George. You’re adults. You can make your own decisions. But it’s only two more months. I’ve tried to tell you it would be better for you to stay for your N.E.W.T.s—better for your business and better as a fall-back while you’re trying to get on your feet. I’m sorry if I sound like a hypocrite. I know Harry and I left, but we had other options that it’s a bit late for you to look into. And now, we have to worry about what will happen to Hogwarts, too. Dumbledore could be gone soon if things go badly—”

“Well, if he is, we’re pulling out all the stops,” George cut in. “I’m want to try to stick it out, Hermione. I mean that,” he said. “I know how much it means to you. But if Umbridge sacks _Dumbledore_ —well, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop Fred from causing chaos, and someone has to make sure he doesn’t hurt anybody.”

“Oi! I know how to be responsible,” Fred protested.

“You’d go nuts on your own, and you know it.”

“Would not!”

“Would too!”

“Boys!” Hermione yelled. Merlin, it hurt seeing them like this. It took a lot of stress to get George and Fred arguing this much, and she felt terrible coming between them. “You need to calm down. You’re no good to anyone fighting like this.”

“Sorry, Hermione,” they said in unison.

“I’m just worried. Everything’s so uncertain right now.”

“Yeah, we know,” George said. “I can’t promise what we’ll do, but I promise we’ll try not to do anything stupid.”

“Thank you, George,” she said softly. “That really does mean a lot to me.” And if all went well in the next few weeks, maybe she could make things a bit more certain for them.

Ginny took the mirror back. “Thanks, Hermione,” she said. “You can always talk some sense into them. By the way, a few of us have talked about keeping the D.A. going. I mean, most of us weren’t caught or anything. But we need someplace to meet that Umbridge doesn’t know about. Do you have any ideas?”

Hermione quickly ran through everything she knew about the castle, but there wasn’t anything suitable. Her first thought was the house elf quarters, but, amazingly for a blood purist, Umbridge was actually smart enough to order them to inform on the students. Empty classrooms weren’t secure enough. Most of the other hiding spots were too small, and only Harry could get into the Chamber of Secrets. She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Ginny, but there’s no place to gather with those kind of numbers. If you need to have a secret meeting with a smaller group, you can climb the Great Tower. Remember, I showed you once? Anyplace on the sixteenth floor or higher should work, but take the Map with you, just in case. You won’t be able hold proper meetings like before, though.”

Ginny sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

Hermione left Harry and Ginny to talk while she returned to the drawing room and chatted up Professor Slughorn. The issue with the Trace had been bugging her, and she hoped he could help. She’d had the idea to bring him some crystallised pineapple from Honeydukes that morning, so he was in a good mood. She discussed her classes with him for a bit, but she quickly got to the point: “The last time Harry and I talked to Professor Dumbledore, we were talking about Tom Riddle again, and Professor Dumbledore said something that made me think he might’ve found a way around the Trace…”

Predictably, Slughorn immediately grew guarded. “Well…I wouldn’t know much about that,” he said. “I suppose he…Riddle… _did_ get up to a fair amount of trouble during his summers in his school years.”

“We know he did: he killed for the first time when he was sixteen. But I was surprised there would be a way around the Trace at all. I was curious about how it worked, but I couldn’t find anything. I thought you might know a little about it.”

“I…might have picked up bits and pieces over the years,” he said cagily. “I hope you don’t think _I_ told him anything about that, Miss Granger.”

“Of course not, Professor. From what I know of the Trace, I’m sure he would’ve talked to the Ancient Runes teacher about it first. Or maybe he tried to figure it out for himself, but he doesn’t strike me as the type to do much spell analysis.”

“No, no, you’re right about that,” he agreed. “Riddle took Arithmancy, but it never seemed to excite him. And you’re also right that Professor Larsson, the Ancient Runes teacher, would have been the only one to know _all_ about the Trace besides Dumbledore. They wouldn’t allow any books that describe it in the school library, for obvious reasons.”

“Yes, that would make sense, wouldn’t it. It’s just that I…I’ll be honest with you Professor. I’m worried I might _need_ a way around the Trace.” She tried to look a more scared and vulnerable than she felt. “I’m not looking to do anything bad with it.” Technically true, but that wasn’t the same as not using it. “I understand why the law’s in place, even if I don’t fully agree with it. But I already found a way around it that I was using to do smaller spells, and I was careful not to cause any trouble with that.”

“Did you really?” Slughorn said.

“Yes—well, it’s not even that big a secret. Toy wands don’t actually trigger the Trace.” Also true, even if it had been ages since she’d used one from a store. “But the Ministry’s watching me closer now, and I’m getting worried. What if they try the same thing with me that they did to Harry? Try to convict me for using magic in self-defence? It wouldn’t have to be dementors. Just arranging for me to be attacked outside Diagon Alley might be enough.”

“Do you really think they would do that?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them after what I’ve seen, sir.”

Slughorn leaned back, biting his lip. He took a sip of his wine. “You know, Miss Granger…” he said, but his voice was far away, as if he was reasoning with himself. “Tom Riddle was probably the most brilliant student I ever had. Oh, I’ve had better students in particular subjects, but he was the best all around—for all the good it did anyone,” he grumbled. “I was so much more careful after him—always second-guessing myself. And you…you dazzle in Arithmancy, Miss Granger. I’ve never seen anything like it, but I’m most of all glad that you have the one thing Tom Riddle never had.”

“A conscience?” she said in confusion.

“Well, yes, but I meant Dumbledore’s trust. Riddle was _my_ greatest blunder, but he was never Dumbledore’s…” He trailed off, reflecting to himself. “I don’t know everything about the Trace, and I intend to keep it that way, you understand?” She nodded. “I know it’s carved into the national rune stone network. It’s a runic spell that detects the presence of any witch or wizard under the age of seventeen, triangulates their position, and records it at the Ministry. It can’t track anyone who’s of age, of course, and they’d have to re-carve it on every stone in the network to change that, so no one worries about that. And I suppose there must be a way to remove yourself from the list early if Riddle did it, but I don’t know what it is.”

“Ah…thank you for telling me that much, then,” she said. “Where would I find these rune stones, anyway?”

“Oh, they’re all over—regularly spaced along all the major ley lines. There’s a line that runs due east from Hogwarts through Hogsmeade, another one running through Diagon Alley. Several stones around the Ministry. And the anchor stones, or at least the corner stones of most old family manors would be part of the network since most of them are built on ley line convergences. Though not this one, I’m afraid. I don’t think it was the main family manor for the Blacks when it was built.”

Hermione frowned. She’d have a hard time snooping around any of those places with the Ministry breathing down her neck to find the rune stones. “I see. Thanks for the help, Professor.”

“Not a problem, Miss Granger. Not a problem at all.”

* * *

According to Ron and Ginny, things were only getting worse at Hogwarts. Over the next week, two more seventh-years dropped out, and tensions in the castle were continuing to rise. The Black Quills were common knowledge, now. Umbridge didn’t use them all the time, but because of them, several people had snapped and attacked her like Ginny had when she tried to give their friends detention. These attacks had been stopped by other teachers and sometimes Slytherin students whom Umbridge seemed to like. The attackers of course received the harshest penalties available, but it never seemed to deter the next one. There were rumours that Umbridge was searching for worse punishments, but no one could agree on what they would be. The “old punishments” that Filch kept threatening seemed to be the top theory, but some of the younger students naively suggested the Cruciatus Curse.

It probably wasn’t a good sign that Hermione believed Umbridge capable of that.

As much as she would have liked to see _that woman_ driven from the castle or at least cursed into the Infirmary, she was pretty sure it would do more harm than good. The Weasleys reported that most of the teachers felt the same way, but their admonitions to the student body were increasingly falling on deaf ears.

But while she was worrying about Hogwarts, the Queen’s birthday came on the twenty-first of April, and one of Hermione’s plans finally worked out for a change.

“The Queen celebrated her birthday at Buckingham Palace today with a bit of a mystery added in,” the reader said on the evening news. “Over the weekend, an anonymous gift arrived for Her Majesty signed only by an “Archimedes” and postmarked from a Post Office Box in London registered under the same name. The Queen’s guard opened the package and found this stunning platinum necklace containing seventy flawless blue and white diamonds and a short note expressing the sender’s birthday wishes.” Hermione was pleased to see that the full text of the letter, including the return address, was visible on the screen next to the picture of her necklace:

 

_Your Majesty:_

_On the occasion of your seventieth birthday, I wish to offer you my heartfelt congratulations and offer my warmest wishes for your special day._

_Your continuing reign has been an inspiration to your subjects these many years. In your lifetime of public service, your strong leadership through times of joy and sorrow and your personal attentiveness to your realm have been an example to us all. Moreover, your commitment to upright governance has been a symbol of stability and faith in our leadership that I have increasingly come to appreciate on a personal level over the years._

_As a token of my appreciation, please accept this necklace, specially commissioned in your honour and crafted with the finest tools and techniques now available, to commemorate this happy event._

_I have the honour to remain, Madam, Your Majesty's most humble and obedient servant._

_Archimedes_

_δῶς μοι πᾶ στῶ καὶ τὰν γᾶν κινάσω._

 

She had considered including only a one-line note with the parcel, making it as short and mysterious as possible, but she decided to go with the formal letter for two reasons. First, no matter how much time she spent in the magical world, she still considered herself a subject of The Queen, and her conscience would not allow her to be anything other than properly respectful. And second, with this whole endeavour, she was trying to cultivate a reputation for the highest standards of professionalism, and that demanded the formal letter as well.

“The letter closes with the famous quote by Archimedes in Greek, which translates to ‘Give me a place to stand, and I will move the earth,’” the newsreader continued. “Upon examining the necklace, jewellers were surprised to discover that the diamonds were entirely synthetic. Producing synthetic diamonds of such quality was thought to be beyond the capabilities of any gemological laboratory in the world, and experts are at a loss as to how the necklace was made. However, based on the price scale for smaller synthetic diamonds, it has been appraised at one hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds.”

When the report ended, Hermione felt the gazes of her parents slowly turn in her direction.

“Hermione…” her dad said. “Did you…did you just…?”

“Did you send The Queen a flawless diamond necklace worth more than our house for her birthday?” her mum said in disbelief.

“Yes. Yes, I did,” Hermione said with a smile.

“But… _how?_ ” Dad demanded.

“Magic.”

“But what about that Statute of Secrecy thing?”

“I didn’t violate it. Even if the Ministry could trace it back to me, which they probably can’t, the muggles think it was made by a laboratory. It’s not that far beyond what actual labs can do, so they’ll never suspect otherwise. The laws on wizards working within the muggle economy are pretty loose as long as they pass as muggles. I checked. They’re written that way because purebloods used to do that a lot.”

“But that doesn’t allow doing business with actual magic, does it?”

“That’s the beauty of it, Dad. That necklace isn’t magical. It was made with magic, but it’s completely inert with no magic in it, and that’s all the Ministry cares about.”

“But a hundred and seventy-five thousand pounds?” he said. “From scratch? Will they really let you do that? How does that not upend the entire economy?”

“Well, if I gave them out like candy, it might break the world diamond market, but I can’t really do that without tipping people off and breaking the Statute of Secrecy. And beyond that, the goblins require you to keep large quantities of money in the muggle world to keep it from disrupting the magical economy. Plus I had to get an Alchemist’s License to do it—long story—which also limits what I can do.”

“I don’t know. It still feels like cheating somehow,” Dad said.

“It’s not cheating,” she protested. “It’s not like I fixed the lottery or something. I’m no more cheating than Bill Gates was being the first person to figure out how to make billions selling computers—well, not the first, but you know what I mean.”

“But aren’t you exploiting us muggles by doing that, Hermione?” Mum said sternly. “Charging thousands of pounds for things that cost you next to nothing to make?”

“How so? I’m undercutting the competition by fifty percent—competition that consists mainly of the De Beers Cartel, which is notorious for being anti-competitive and artificially inflating prices. I can only deal in small volumes, so it’ll do next to nothing to hurt the actual laboratories. And with muggle technology to make synthetic diamonds is constantly improving, I’m only speeding up a change that was going to happen anyway. And that’s leaving aside the fact that I still had to buy the platinum.”

Mum sighed and rubbed her temples. “Hermione, why are you doing this?” she said. “This isn’t _you_. You’ve always cared about knowledge, not money. And we don’t need _that_ kind of money, not by a long shot.”

“It’s different in the magical world, Mum,” she said. “Money buys power there, and right now, that power is actively threatening my life, just because I wasn’t born in their world. I won’t lie to you; part of this is just to see if I could do it, and part of it is because I want to give my boyfriend financial security when he graduates. But the more I think about it, it’s the money that’s making the Ministry bury its head in the sand while Voldemort gains power as much as it is Fudge’s stubbornness. I’ve felt so powerless all year, I want to do something about it.”

Mum got up and hugged her. “I wish you didn’t have to do this, Hermione,” she said.

“I know, Mum, but we’re way past that,” she said. “Please trust me. I can make this work.”

“We do trust you. It doesn’t stop us worrying. But if you need to do this to stay safe—or safer—then do it.”

“Thanks, Mum,” she said with a smile.

* * *

_DUMBLEDORE SACKED!_

_ON THE RUN FOR UNDERMINING MINISTRY!_

_UMBRIDGE NAMED HEADMISTRESS OF HOGWARTS!_

_In a shocking turn of events, Hogwarts Headmaster Albus Dumbledore was fired from his post last night and went on the run after a warrant was issued for his arrest for attempting to subvert the Ministry of Magic!_

_Inside sources report that the Ministry has gathered evidence that the recent string of dropouts from Hogwarts and attacks on staff was in fact part of a scheme by Dumbledore to manipulate the students of Hogwarts into bringing down the Ministry and Minister Fudge. The Ministry took action Thursday night after a group of five sixth- and seventh-year students staged a vicious attack on High Inquisitor Dolores Umbridge. The High Inquisitor was saved from the ambush only by the actions of an anonymous fifth-year student who discovered the plot and warned her in time. The High Inquisitor called the Aurors to take the would-be attackers into custody. All five conspirators were summarily expelled, at which time the plot by Dumbledore was discovered._

_Unfortunately, when confronted by Minister Fudge, High Inquisitor Umbridge, and two Aurors, Dumbledore fled the school with the help of his pet phoenix. He is now a fugitive from justice, and anyone with knowledge of his whereabouts is encouraged to inform the Ministry at once._

_Under the authority granted by Educational Decree Number Thirty-One, High Inquisitor Umbridge was promoted to the position of Headmistress to restore order to the school._

 

Hermione hurried to Grimmauld Place once again and was relieved to find that while the “conspiracy” was real, the only one of the five conspirators she knew was Lee Jordan. Fred and George had apparently stayed out of it, but she really hoped they didn’t do anything stupid now, especially with their best friend gone. She was relieved to learn from Kingsley Shacklebolt that the would-be attackers would all get off with a legal slap on the wrist—mostly because everyone at the Ministry was preoccupied with Dumbledore’s disappearance. The Headmaster’s involvement, of course, was entirely fabricated, but that didn’t make her feel any better.

So _that_ _’s_ what Umbridge would do when things got too hot for her. The good news was that the new _Quibbler_ interview was to be published the Monday after Dumbledore was sacked. Unfortunately, the timing couldn’t have been worse. Hermione had hoped the news of children being tortured at Hogwarts with Umbridge’s Black Quills would be enough to get their parents riled up, even with the media hype focused on Dumbledore. Little did she know that new developments that same day were about to make _The Quibbler_ _’s_ article hopelessly out of date.

She was mildly surprised when her D.A. galleon heated up around her neck. She still wore her master coin on a necklace, but the galleons had hardly received any use since Harry gave his master to Ron. She glanced at it to see what he was up to, but she was much more surprised when she saw that the message wasn’t from Ron at all, but was a message _to_ the master copies from one of the other galleons, and her heart skipped a beat when she read it:

_GEORGE IN TROUBLE! PLEASE HELP!—FGW_

Hermione didn’t know what was happening, but if it was bad enough that Fred was begging her to come up to the castle in broad daylight, she had no time to waste. She raced to the castle, for the first time willing the Knight Bus to go faster as it bounced around the country. While she sat, she mentally went over all the new hexes and curses she’d created. The Ossifying Curse. The Blistering Curse. The Nightmare Tooth-Removing Hex. Some she hadn’t yet finished or was even afraid to try them, but if George was badly hurt, she thought she might just snap—especially if Umbridge was involved.

As soon as the bus made a stop in Hogsmeade, she practically ran to Honeydukes. Slapping a sickle on the surprised Mr. Flume’s counter, she dashed to the cellar, hopped on the broom, and flew through the secret passage at a decidedly unsafe speed.

Fred was waiting for her where the secret passage came out. “Oh, Hermione, thank Merlin!” he exclaimed.

“Fred, what’s wrong?” she said breathlessly. “Where’s George?”

“The Great Hall. Come on, you have to talk some sense into him.”

He started running down the corridor, and she hurried to catch up. “I have to talk sense into _George?_ ” she said.

“Just hurry! Watch out for the swamp.”

“What?” They passed a miniature swamp in the middle of one of the corridors. She was starting to notice that the whole castle looked askew—burn marks all over the place, suits of armour knocked over, and paintings hanging every which way.

“I’ll tell you later. We have to get to the Great Hall. They might’ve already started, he said frantically.

This was bad. He must’ve thought George was in real danger, the way he was carrying on. “Fred, started _what?_ ” she said.

“It’s been a mess since Dumbledore left,” he said hurriedly. “Umbridge started this thing called the Inquisitorial Squad. She put a bunch of Slytherins on it and gave them the power to dock points and stuff. The House Cup’s a joke now, and they’re ratting us out on everything, so we went on this big pranking spree to fight back. Not attacking her directly, so she couldn’t expel us. Just fireworks, class disruptions, free Skiving Snackboxes, and such.”

“And?”

“She caught us.”

“Detentions?” she said worriedly.

“Worse. She got another Educational Decree, and…” he grimaced like he was about to be sick. “I told George we had to leave. I told her I was dropping out, but George still wants to stay. You’ll have to tell him to leave. They…just see for yourself!”

They reached the Entrance Hall and pushed the door open. Hermione’s eyes bulged out, and she felt like she might be sick herself.

There was a _whipping post_ set up in the middle of the Great Hall. George was tied to it, his shirt gone, with several lines of crimson red across his back as Filch brought a horsewhip down hard on him while the student body watched.

_“NO!”_

She sprinted forward as all eyes in the Hall turned to her. Umbridge’s normally-toad-like face gaped like a fish. She caught a glimpse of the Gryffindor Chasers holding Ron and Ginny back from interfering while a number of Slytherins with new purple badges had their wands out to keep others in line. Only Filch was oblivious as he struck again and again with obvious fury until Hermione jumped in front of George, and the tip of the whip glanced off her cheek.

“AHH! _Expelliarmus!_ ” she cried, and the whip went flying into the crowd. She touched her cheek, and her fingers came away red. With the threat of Filch removed, she levelled her wand at Umbridge next: “Get away from him, you bitch!”

A heavy silence fell over the Hall, but it was quickly broken by Umbridge shouting, “Hermione Granger! You are _not_ welcome her. You are trespassing and in violation of Educational Decree—”

“Which my tutor has the exclusive first option to discipline me for,” she said quickly, thanking God she’d read the fine print. “And I was never given written notice that my open invitation was revoked. If you want me to leave, I’ll leave, but I’m taking George with me.”

“You most certainly are not. Mr. Weasley must be properly punished for his numerous offences against this school.”

Hermione ignored her and spun around to look George over. He had dropped to his knees, half-hanging by his wrists from the post. _“Diffindo,”_ she incanted, and his hands dropped, leaving him leaning against the column. “Hermione, what’re you doing here?” he said weakly.

“Fred called me. Drop out.”

“What?”

“Drop. Out. Tell them you’re dropping out of school, and they’ll have to end this.”

He stared up at her with wide eyes. “I wanted to stay for you,” he said.

“Dammit, George, I didn’t mean like _this!_ Graduating isn’t worth this. I’m not going to let you take it for me. Tell them—”

“Hey, get out of the way!” Filch wheezed behind her. “I’ve been waiting for this for twenty-four years.”

Hermione spun around in fury and pointed her wand at him, a Brain Freeze Hex on the tip of her tongue. But as he flinched, she forced the urge down. She couldn’t do that in front of Umbridge, not to mention so many other witnesses. That _would_ get her arrested. “Don’t you start, Filch,” she spat. “I don’t know what’s happened to you. We used to be on fairly good terms. I helped you learn potions, remember? If you feel like you owe me _anything_ for that, let us leave in peace.” Seeing him back off hesitantly at that, she turned back around and whispered in her boyfriend’s ear.

“George,” she whispered. “I’ve got the money.” He turned and looked into her eyes in confusion. “Or I will soon. I was going to surprise you at graduation. I found a way to make some fast—I’ll be able to pay you everything Bagman bilked you out of and then some. It’s for the store…I want to be a partner.”

George’s eyed widened to the size of saucers. “A partner? You mean it?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Hermione…I think I love you.”

 _“Tell them,”_ she insisted, refusing to be distracted.

He staggered to his feet and started bitterly at Umbridge. “I’m dropping out of school,” he said.

“Oh, thank Merlin!” Fred cried. “Oi, Peeves!”

The resident Poltergeist swooped down and stared him in the face. “Yes, your Weasleyness?” he said.

“Get our brooms out of Umbridge’s office, and you can have the extra loot we hid in Myrtle’s bathroom.”

“WHAT?!” Umbridge screeched, but it was too late. Half a minute later, there was a loud crash, and Peeves zoomed back with the Twins’ two Cleansweep Fives.

“ _Accio_ George’s cloak,” Hermione cast, and the garment flew into her hands. “Sorry about this, but you need something for the bleeding.” She threw the cloak over his back and pinned it around his chest. He hissed in pain, but he pulled her onto the broom with him, her in front, and the Weasley Twins flew off into the sunset, leaving a Peeves-induced fireworks frenzy behind them.

“So, uh, where are we going?” Fred asked once they were clear. “St. Mungo’s?”

“Do you trust them?” Hermione said.

“They did fine with Dad.”

“Your dad didn’t do a runner whilst defacing school property. And Umbridge might still be able to nail me for trespassing. Sorry, but I’m feeling really paranoid right now.”

“I’m guessing you don’t have a shop front yet?” George said, and she shook her head.

“What?” said Fred.

“Oh, right. Hermione wants to be our partner for the joke shop.”

Fred stared at her: “Are you kidding?”

“I wouldn’t prank you about this, Fred. I want in. And give me a few weeks, and we won’t have to worry about money anymore.”

Fred gaped at her. All he could think of to say was, “Good. That’s one less thing.”

“Anyway, back to the matter at hand, there’s only one place I’d feel completely safe going right now,” she said. Well, her house, too, but her parents weren’t equipped to treat whip lacerations. “Headquarters.”

“Headquarters?” Fred said incredulously. “Like Grimmauld Place Headquarters? Are you barmy? That’s where Mum is.”

“Fred, George just got publicly _whipped!_ Your mum will understand…And if she doesn’t, I’ll _make_ her understand.”

“I think we should do it, Freddie,” George agreed. “I’m not feeling so hot, honestly.”

Fred paled again. “Alright, then,” he said meekly. “We’d better land. You okay to Apparate?”

“Er, yeah. If you give me a hand, I think we can get the three of us there…Don’t tell anybody.”

“We can take the Knight Bus—” Hermione started.

“We’re good,” George said. “Just hold on tight.” They landed on the outskirts of Hogsmeade, well outside the Anti-Apparition Wards of the castle. Once they were back on their feet, Hermione took Fred’s arm, and they Apparated to the safe point near Grimmauld Place. Hermione hadn’t Apparated Side-Along with a human before, and Fred and George weren’t really trained for it, so it was rougher than it was with Dobby. She checked herself over to make sure she wasn’t missing any parts when they appeared in London. Fortunately, she was okay. Unfortunately, George staggered in pain and nearly collapsed.

Hermione and Fred quickly supported him on their shoulders and pulled him up the street to the door of Headquarters. Hermione rang the bell and heard the shouting from Mrs. Black’s portrait inside. A minute later, Mrs. Weasley opened the door.

“How many times do I have to tell you—” She started before she noticed who she was talking to. “Fred? George? What’re you doing—My God, _George!_ What happened?”

“Filch whipped him, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said.

“WHAT?! He _didn_ _’t!_ ”

“He did. He needs help, Mrs. Weasley. And I’m a little paranoid about St. Mungo’s right now.”

Mrs. Weasley was at a loss for a moment, but seeing the grave looks on their faces, she pulled herself together and said, “Bring him down to the kitchen. _Horace! Remus! Sirius!_ Get down here!”

They hurried George into the kitchen and laid him on his stomach on the table. Hermione gently pulled his cloak off of him. Mrs. Weasley cried out and nearly fainted at the sight.

At that moment, Sirius and Remus ran into the kitchen, followed by a curious Harry and Professor Slughorn. “Molly, what’s wrong—Oh, bollocks! What happened?” Sirius said.

“Filch happened,” Hermione said.

“Filch? How?” Remus asked. “This looks like he was whipped.”

“He was,” she told him.

“Educational Decree Number Thirty-Two,” Fred growled. “By order of the Ministry blah blah blah corporal punishment blah blah blah public whipping for severe infractions.”

“Oh, _that_ _’s_ what that was?” Remus said. “I saw the headline in the paper this morning, but I hadn’t got around to reading it. I didn’t know it was that bad. With the story about the Quills breaking—”

“Didn’t stop them. I saw the whole thing,” Hermione said tearfully.

“Hermione, you’re hurt,” Harry said, suddenly noticing her face.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” she said, forcing a smile. She wet a paper towel in the sink and wiped down her cheek.

“Let me give you a hand with that, Molly,” Slughorn said as they tended George’s wounds. “I think there’s a pain potion and a disinfectant wash in this cabinet…”

“They set up a whipping post in the Great Hall,” Hermione continued. “No one could interfere because Umbridge recruited a bunch of Slytherins to be her personal Brownshirts and keep everyone else in line. George was being a stubborn arse wanting to stay till graduation because I’d asked him…but I begged him to give it up and leave. It wasn’t worth it.”

“Of course it wasn’t worth it,” Mrs. Weasley spat. “It shouldn’t have even been legal.”

“Why not, Mum?” Fred asked bitterly. “Didn’t you say Dad has marks from when you were in school?”

“Not like this, Fred. Apollyon Pringle used a cane on your father when he caught us in the Astronomy Tower at four in the morning— _once_ —but he _never_ used a whip! And even then, Dumbledore fired him after that year for drawing blood too many times. Oh, my poor boy…”

“Well, we’re done with school, Mum,” Fred said firmly. “We’re not going back to that.”

“Of course you’re not, dear. Maybe the Ministry will come to its senses, and you can do it next year.”

“We’re going to start our shop,” he told her.

Mrs. Weasley sighed heavily. “I’m not going to argue with you, boys. Not today. I know that’s been your dream since you were old enough to understand what a joke shop was. I’m just saying you need to be realistic. A shop is an uncertain endeavour, and it takes a lot of money to start.”

He glanced at Hermione. “We’ve got it worked out, Mum,” he said. “And yes, it’s legal. Trust us.”

“I do trust you two,” Mrs. Weasley said softly. “I still think you’re mad, but I trust you. Sometimes, I think this is the one thing you’ve ever been serious about.”

Hermione smiled to see some reconciliation among the Weasleys. Now if only they could get Percy to pull his head out of his proverbial arse.

Mrs. Weasley, Remus, and Professor Slughorn finished bandaging George’s wounds and helped him up to his bedroom where they against laid him on his stomach on the bed. One by one, everyone left the room (Mrs. Weasley muttered something about sending Fudge a Howler.) until only Fred and Hermione remained. Fred quickly made a break for it too at a glare from George. Hermione sat on the end of the bed, stroking George’s hair.

“I’m sorry, George,” she said. “I told you I wanted you to stay at Hogwarts, but I never thought it would be that bad.”

“No, I was being an idiot,” he responded. “I cared so much about not disappointing you—”

“I’m not disappointed. Really. I might’ve been if you’d done it earlier, but that’s how I was raised. You finish what you start, and you especially stay in school. But I was being a hypocrite. I _knew_ how much of a farce the system is now.”

George propped himself up on his arm. “You weren’t being a hypocrite, Hermione,” he insisted. “You’re still getting tutoring. You’re still going to take your O.W.L.s if Umbridge doesn’t screw that up, too. You were just looking out for me—and Fred. We both appreciate that.”

Hermione leaned down and kissed him softly.

“About what you said before…” he continued. “You really want to be a partner? And you’ve got the money?”

“Yes. And not yet, but I will soon. I know how much it means to you.”

“How?”

“Magic. Long story. But it’s legal.”

“Well…good. ‘Cause we just used up most of our stock.”

Hermione sighed: “Boys.”

“You didn’t have to help us, you know.”

“No, but I want to. For you. And Fred. Besides, it’s not like this is the first business I’ve invested in. I’ll be getting something out of it too.”

“Yeah…”

“George, about what _you_ said before…” she asked.

“Oh, Merlin,” he groaned. “Look, Hermione, that just kind of slipped out—”

She put a finger to his lips. “You don’t have to apologise to me. And I…I wish I had an answer for you. I know that’s not what you want to hear. It’s just all too much right now. But I promise you, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon, and I’m definitely not bailing on the shop. You can count on me for that.” He nodded with a hint of relief, and she leaned down to kiss him again. “I need to go. Mum and Dad will be worried about me. But I’ll be back on Thursday.”

“Thanks, Hermione.”

* * *

Hermione was subdued on the bus ride home. She gave her parents a brief explanation of what had happened, which appalled them just as much as it had Mrs. Weasley, but she wasn’t in a mood to talk beyond that. She managed to convey enough hints to Mum that she needed to talk with her one on one, which she did after supper.

“Alright, Hermione,” she said, coming into her bedroom. “What else happened that you could say in front of your father?”

“George said he loved me.”

Mum sat down. “Oh…”

“Granted, he was bleeding and possibly delirious, and I’d just told him I wanted to be a partner in his shop when he said it. He even tried to take it back, but still…”

“That’s…big.”

“Yeah.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him I didn’t have an answer because there was too much going on, and I needed to think about it. But I did tell him I wasn’t going anywhere…Was that okay, Mum?”

“Hermione, there’s no easy way to handle that at your age, but I think that was probably about the best you could have done—especially if you really do want to stay with him. How old is George, again?”

“Just turned eighteen.”

“I see…and how do you feel about him.”

“I like him a lot, Mum,” she said. “People always underestimate him—and Fred, honestly, but George more so. He’s the smarter twin, and the more sensible one—most of the time. He stops to think and pay attention to how other people are feeling more often. He supports me, which isn’t that special by itself, but he _gets_ me. I mean—I’m not saying this well. I mean, no matter what crazy project I get up to, George and Fred can take it in stride, even when they don’t understand it. I know plenty of boys, but they’re the only ones who can really keep up with me.”

“So you fancy him,” Mum observed shrewdly.

She rolled her eyes: “Yes, Mum. I’m dating him, aren’t I? But he’s fancied me longer, I think. And we’ve known each other since I was eleven, so it’s not like this is new, although it did take me by surprise—”

“Okay, I get it,” Mum held up a hand. “I’m not asking you to justify your relationship to me. I’m just asking how you feel about him.”

“I…I don’t know, Mum,” Hermione admitted. “I really like him…I’ve been so grateful to have him…Honestly, there are times when I feel like I need him around just to keep me sane these days. But…I don’t know if I’m there yet. I could…see myself staying with him…you know, _long-term_.” She stopped and thought for a minute. “Probably more than any other boy I know. But I’m scared. After the past two… _five_ years I’ve had, who knows what’s going to happen next week…? What do you think I should do?”

Mum looked at her and considered her problem for a minute before speaking. “What I think you _shouldn_ _’t_ do,” she said, “is that you shouldn’t let uncertainty about the future hold you back. Bad things are going to happen, and you might get your heart broken, but that’s the risk you have to take. You’re clearly smart enough to step back and take stock of things before you charge into a relationship, and believe me, your father and I are thankful for that. But you also have to be willing to take a chance now and then—within reason, of course. And you _definitely_ shouldn’t string George along, even if you don’t mean to. It sounds like he’s fallen for you, and this is the time when you need to let him off easy if you’re not serious about it.”

“But I am, though,” Hermione said.

Mum nodded: “You sound like you are. So…my advice would be to let it sit a while longer. If he wants to take it back, you should give him the space to get more comfortable with things. Now, don’t let things become awkward between you. And don’t be afraid to have a frank conversation with him when you think the time is right. If things _do_ get awkward, or if he starts to press the issue, you’ll want to do that sooner rather than later, but otherwise, you sound like you have a healthy relationship going, so just try to let it develop naturally the same as before.”

“I…I think I can do that, Mum,” Hermione said. “Thank you.”

“Anytime, Hermione.” She got up and hugged her. “You’re growing up so fast. Just be careful—and I mean with everything…And use protection.”

_“MUM!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Educational Decrees so far:  
> #21: Limits accreditation to prevent students from going to school overseas.  
> #22: Allows the Ministry to fill vacant teaching positions at Hogwarts.  
> #23: Creates the position of High Inquisitor.  
> #24: Gives the High Inquisitor supreme authority over punishments.  
> #25: Bans unauthorised student organisations.  
> #26: Forbids teachers from giving students information outside of their subjects.  
> #27: Forbids teachers from teaching extra subjects.  
> #28: Forbids teachers from participating in continuing education programs during the school year.  
> #29: Bans a schedule of forbidden media.  
> #30: Exploits a loophole to allow Umbridge to keep Harry and Hermione out of Hogwarts.  
> #31: Gives the Ministry the power to appoint a new Headmaster.  
> #32: Expands the use of corporal punishment including but not limited to public whipping.


	30. Chapter 30

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: C6H12O6 + 6O2 —> 6CO2 + 6H2O + JK Rowling.
> 
> A few people were shocked at the appearance of the whipping post in the last chapter, but remember, that’s what Filch and Umbridge were going to do in canon before Fred and George left. Yes, there is public outrage over it, but as I mention in this chapter, it’s largely become a moot point because Umbridge has now almost completely lost control.

According to Ron and Ginny (who were getting pretty annoyed at being left behind by this point), the pranks dropped precipitously after Fred and George left, but they began to ramp up again in the following days. A couple more people dropped out, but what most people did was to completely give up any pretence of taking the rules seriously. This would be a disaster for any school, but it was even worse because most of the teachers felt the same way. They stopped even trying to enforce the rule of no magic in the corridor, and, not wanting their students to suffer corporal punishment, they began denying any trouble-making they saw as long as it didn’t disrupt their own classes, which Umbridge knew was a pack of lies, but she couldn’t prove it. Ironically, Potions was now the most peaceful class because everyone knew Snape wouldn’t cover for them. Umbridge’s classes were running half-empty because so many students “mysteriously” fell ill during them. The Skiving Snackboxes were clearly still getting around.

By Wednesday, the teachers had stopped giving and taking points because Slytherin was the only house that still had any thanks to the Inquisitorial Squad. By Thursday, they were also the only people who still cared, and everyone else laughed at them because they knew what a joke it had become.

The whipping post was torn down overnight after the Twins left. Umbridge and Filch set it back up the next day, but it always seemed to fall over again when no one was looking. On May Day, even though the Twins’ plan to hex Malfoy had fallen apart, someone had set it back up and jinxed the entire Inquisitorial Squad to dance around it like a maypole during dinner. Everyone at Grimmauld Place thought the photos were brilliant.

There was predictable public outrage over the use of corporal punishment at Hogwarts, but it made little practical difference by now because the students had already taken matters into their own hands. Filch began carrying his horsewhip around in the corridors, but he was surrounded by so many miscreants that he didn’t know whom to punish first, and when he tried, he couldn’t seem to hold onto it long enough to do any real damage. The Inquisitorial Squad tried to help, but they kept being incapacitated by increasingly creative jinxes. Even the other Slytherins were getting annoyed with them; Ginny reported a rumour of Daphne Greengrass hexing antlers onto Pansy Parkinson behind her back.

“How is anyone still learning at all anymore?” Hermione said, aghast when the younger Weasleys told her.

“It’s not that bad in the other classes,” Ginny said. “It’s kinda like everyone’s made a pact not to mess with the other teachers. The school’s gone nuts, but people are still doing their homework.”

“What about the Aurors?” Harry asked.

“We do everything behind their backs. They can’t prove anything. Some people think we should just run Umbridge out of the castle, though.”

“Bad idea,” Hermione said at once. “Keep toying with her. Make sure she knows that you’re the ones in control, but don’t give her anything she can prove. You don’t want to give the Ministry an excuse to station Aurors at Hogwarts full time. And besides…” She grinned. “I bet the thing Umbridge hates most of all is being powerless.”

Ginny’s eyes widened in the mirror. “You weren’t kidding when you said the Sorting Hat wanted you to transfer to Slytherin, were you?” she said.

“Nope. I think I always had that side of me. Somewhere along the line, I decided to embrace it.”

“Well, you’re doing good up there, you two,” Harry said.

“Yes. Keep giving her hell from us.” Hermione agreed. “Just be careful.”

* * *

A little later, Dobby brought Hermione even more welcome news. “Professor Umbridge is not knowing it, miss, but the Hogwarts wards is not recognising her as Headmistress,” he told the family over supper.

“They’re not?” Hermione said in surprise. “I know she couldn’t get into the Headmaster’s office, but I assumed that was something Dumbledore did.”

“I do not know, miss, but she is not recognised, so Professor McGonagall can overrule her orders to the elves.”

Hermione burst out laughing. “That’s brilliant, Dobby!” she said. It was good to know the elves had an out from being locked into something they didn’t want to do. “But wait, how do _you_ know that?”

Dobby blushed slightly. “Sonya told Dobby,” he said.

“Oh? You’ve been talking to Sonya?”

Dobby blushed more and looked down at his feet. “I has, miss…Sonya was very happy I was able to help her warn you about Professor Umbridge…Dobby is sorry, Miss Hermione. I should have tolds you before.”

“No, it’s fine, Dobby. What you do on your own time is your business.”

“Thank you, Miss Hermione, but I shoulds have asked…Dobby would like permission to date Sonya.”

 _Date her?_ Hermione thought. She knew the elves had become friendly with each other, but she had no idea they’d grown that close, especially with the other elves’ attitudes towards Dobby. From the shocked looks on her parents’ faces, they had no idea either. “Dobby, you’re salaried. You don’t really need my permission for dating,” she said. She finally remembered that bonded elves _did_ need permission, which would his explain his strange behaviour. “Although I do have to wonder, isn’t she a little young for you? I mean, you’re sixty-eight, and she’s twenty-two.”

“Oh, elves is often bred at very different ages, miss. Wizards do it to keep the bloodlines—”

“Keep the bloodlines healthy,” she finished for him. “Hypocrites,” she grumbled. “I take it Sonya can get permission?”

“She is only needing permission from Professor Sprout, miss.”

“Okay. Well, then…good luck, I guess.”

“Yes, Dobby, we hope it works out for you,” her mum agreed.

“Thank you, Miss Hermione.”

* * *

As April turned to May, Hermione ran into a new problem: fan mail. She had expected that she would get some letters forwarded through her London P.O. Box after “Archimedes” made “his” public debut—was counting on it, in fact. But she wasn’t prepared for the sheer volume of post she received. She’d forgotten how much bigger the muggle world was than the magical one. She was soon getting hundreds of completely useless letters from all over the world. She received a polite, form-letter thank you from The Queen. She kept that one. But as for the others, many were just saying how impressed they were by her new “technology”, or were thanking her for showing up the De Beers Group. (Indeed, a De Beers spokesperson had given “Archimedes” a passive-aggressive congratulations for “stepping up the game” in a press release and pledged to double the company’s research into synthetic diamond production.) A few thanked Hermione for her gift to The Queen out of patriotic sentiment, and a lot were angling for gifts and/or clues to her production process—both ordinary people and jewellers, and even actual gemological laboratories.

Unfortunately, Hermione didn’t have time for any of them. She was trying to engender an air of exclusivity and mystery, and for that, the only letters she cared about were the ones that requested to buy one of her priceless pieces of jewelry and actually had the means to pay for it. She didn’t have time to sort out those few from the growing pile, even with Dobby’s help, so, seeing little alternative, she went back to the Owl Post Office in Hogsmeade.

“Do you have any automatic mail-sorting spells?” she asked the manager. “Surely, celebrities like Celestina Warbeck must need a way to sort their post quickly.”

The manager shook his head. “We do, ma’am, but those are intent-based sorting spells for letters written by wizards, and you’re receiving an awful lot of muggle post.”

“Oh…And I don’t suppose you’ll sort them by hand.”

“We just deliver them, ma’am. That would be more than my time’s worth.”

Hermione bit her lip and considered her options. If she was using that new muggle e-mail, it would be easy. Actually, maybe there was a clue there. “Do you know what a keyword search is?” she asked.

“I can’t say I do.”

“It’s a way to sort out letters than contain certain words.”

“Oh, you mean a Word Sieve Charm. Yes, we can do that. Don’t use it much, though. The intent-based sorting is much more accurate.”

“I know, but it doesn’t need to be perfect. It just needs to cut down my stack to a manageable size.”

“Alright, then.” The manager produced some parchment. “You’ll need to sign off on it, since legally, it’s equivalent to reading your post. And you’ll need to tell us how you want them sorted.”

“Not a problem.” She signed the forms and put together a list of keywords like “buy” and “purchase” that she thought would cover all the letters that were actually interested in her products. She knew they would probably miss a few (and she had to hope everyone who was interested would have the sense to write in English), but she was going to be exclusive, so she knew she would probably never reply to most of them anyway.

It took another week of fiddling with the keywords, but soon, her flood of mail slowed to a trickle, and most of what she was receiving was relevant. However, it wasn’t as easy to find the right client to start her business proper.

She needed to make an impression with her next piece. She had a certain impression that she wanted Archimedes to project beyond what she had done already. She was looking for a request for a commissioned piece, not a free-form design—one where she wouldn’t have to rely on her own artistic skills. One piece for The Queen was one thing, but she was just starting out, and she wasn’t sure if she could sustain that level of creativity. It also needed to be within the capabilities of Archimedes’ supposed technology, and preferably outside the United Kingdom, so that no one would think she was an exclusively British company.

It might take a while for the right request to present itself.

* * *

While she was waiting over the next month, Hermione practised her skills in making diamonds and other gemstones to diversify her portfolio, and she also tried other experiments with rearranging atoms—chemistry-based, free-form experiments that didn’t require runes and geometric figures, only wand motions. It was tricky; she still needed a specific spell for a specific chemical change; it wasn’t like free transfiguration. But the simplest molecules weren’t all that difficult, and she soon found she could compute them in her head. She started—very carefully, with splitting water into hydrogen and oxygen. That was a bad idea. It worked, but she managed to burn off her eyebrows off again.

“And that’s a bad thing why?” George asked.

But it really was, even besides Mrs. Weasley’s ranting about already having enough explosions from the Twins. Hermione had to start with simple molecules for these experiments, and with most reactions of simple molecules, one of the steps wound up being poisonous, explosive, or both—and an awful lot of them were gaseous, too. She decided to try making hydrogen peroxide, which stayed liquid and wasn’t too dangerous in low concentrations. She combined the water in a small beaker with oxygen from the air to partially convert it to peroxide, and she could immediately tell it had worked from the fumes. So far so good.

Then, she tried combining water with carbon to make formaldehyde, and she nearly threw up from the smell. Apparently, formaldehyde was gaseous at room temperature. That stuff that animals were preserved in was actually an aqueous solution. She chided herself for her carelessness. She should have _known_ that. How many chemists throughout history had died because they hadn’t understood what they were doing? She vowed to herself then that she would only manipulate chemicals if she knew the exact implications of the experiment. But even so, the ability to rearrange atoms looked like it would be an incredibly powerful tool once she developed it properly.

She and Harry continued taking their lessons with Professor Slughorn, and they were both making good progress in her opinion. She also started teaching Harry some of her newer spells. Unfortunately, atomic rearrangement, which she considered mostly likely to be the “power the Dark Lord knows not,” wasn’t ready for that yet, but she could teach him other incapacitating spells like her Brain Freeze Hex, a Clothing-Binding Jinx, and (reluctantly) various dental-based hexes.

At her behest, they also continued to probe Professor Slughorn for information about Voldemort and horcruxes, mainly with Hermione leading. Harry wanted to come out and ask him, but Hermione warned him about what Dumbledore had said. They didn’t want him to clam up completely. Hermione instead pushed Harry to join her in asking for small tidbits here and there. Harry did approach Sirius, though, who suggested getting Slughorn drunk. That might work, Hermione agreed, but she would hold off on that strategy until they had exhausted the others, and honestly, it didn’t feel as pressing with Dumbledore on the run.

Hermione also kept working on incorporating fractal geometry into spells—in her official arithmancy work and in her personal work inventing curses. It took a while to decide on a fractal that suited her purposes. After trying a few wand movements, she eventually settled on the 2-dimensional Cantor set. All of the options were a strain on her wrist; the final product took a very quick triple twirl of her wand, but if she was right, in combat, it would be devastating. Harry, naturally, picked it up quite a bit faster than she did.

As for her jewelry, it was slow going. In that month, she received only four orders that looked reasonably promising. The first was from a Spanish nobleman seeking to buy a gift for the Infanta Christina, to which she replied:

 

_We regret to inform you that we do not deal in natural diamonds. If you are interested in obtaining a piece with synthetic diamonds_ _…_

 

She’d gone back and forth on whether to refer to herself in the singular or the plural in her letters before deciding on the plural, despite her letter to the queen, since no one would believe Archimedes was truly working alone. She did keep the letters short and to the point, and, of course, she wasn’t going to bother with diamonds that she couldn’t make herself. The nobleman sent her a polite reply that he was no longer interested.

The second order was a Saudi prince with very exacting standards who would be perfect for her first sale if they could reach a deal.

 

_We regret to inform you that the only colours of diamonds currently available are white, blue, and yellow. However, it is possible to substitute rubies or pink sapphires in the requested design. If you wish to commission the piece in this form_ _…_

 

That was based on her _actual_ capabilities, not Archimedes’ supposed ones. Only yellow and blue diamonds had a simple chemical source for their colours that she could replicate. Pink, green, purple, brown, and black diamonds were more complicated and poorly understood, although if she could find a good book on crystallography, it might be able to tell her more. She didn’t receive a reply from the prince right away, but she was still hopeful.

The third order on her list was from a British jeweller whom she suspected of trying to open up a partnership to sell her wares. She would have accepted the order anyway because the jeweller was asking for a fairly simple, but still expensive ring. Unfortunately, he tried to negotiate the price. In reply, she sent a second letter, identical to her first:

 

_The requested piece will be delivered upon payment of twenty thousand pounds (_ _£20,000) by check or wire transfer to Archimedes Jewellers…_

 

After being rebuffed like that, he stopped responding, but she didn’t regret it. She had a reputation to uphold. Archimedes always charged a fair price, but he never, _ever_ haggled. He would seem more exclusive that way (hopefully without coming off as too much of a jerk).

The fourth order in her pile was the one she ultimately made into her first sale. It came from an American actress (or rather her agent) who wanted to raise awareness or make a statement or some such and wanted a really over-the-top tennis bracelet to show off at her next film premier. This time, the price was right: twenty-five thousand pounds for thirty-seven perfect half-carat diamonds and the setting. That meant five hundred galleons towards the Twins’ store—five hundred galleons they could use to restock their supplies and start renting out a building. Now _that_ was the kind of security they needed.

* * *

She found the Twins in the drawing room, poring over what turned out to be a massive pedigree chart for their miniature puffskeins. Several pink and purple puffskeins were crawling around the corners of the parchment as live paperweights. Classic Fred and George.

“So cross Number 14 with Number 22, and Number 8 with Number 35,” George said. “That should finish off our next batch.”

“Got it. How are we doing on numbers?” asked Fred.

“Assuming we don’t sweep the market, we should be fine, but they only live about five years, so we should keep breeding a few.”

“Wow. You’re really taking this responsible breeding programme to heart, aren’t you,” Hermione spoke up.

They both looked up from the parchment. “Hey. Well, you were right about using humane practises, Hermione, and from there it’s tricky to get them to breed true when we can only cross dwarfs with normals,” George said.

“Yep, takes some serious effort,” Fred agreed. “But we’re making good progress. Oh, and we finally thought of a better name—”

“Pygmy Puffs!” they said together.

Hermione smiled and picked up one of the little furballs. They actually were very cute. “I like it,” she said. “How does your mum feel about having all of them around?”

“Seems a bit confused, to be honest,” Fred said. “We reckon she sees all this stuff and finally admits we’re really serious about it, and she just can’t wrap her head around the idea that our shop might actually work.”

“To be fair, she doesn’t know we have money coming in,” George said. “We didn’t tell her what you said. Not that we don’t trust you—”

“We just wanted to wait till the deal was done,” Fred finished.

“I understand. Speaking of which, have you looked into a building yet?” Hermione asked.

“No, we kinda need the money—” They stopped when she smiled knowingly, and their eyes bugged out. “Are you saying…?” George started.

Hermione held up a bag of gold for them to see: “It finally came through.”

“How much?” he whispered.

“Five hundred galleons.”

Both twins looked like they might faint. “Five hundred!” Fred swooned. “You said you were gonna do it, but I didn’t really believe—”

“I know,” George agreed. “Hermione, this is a small fortune. Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Positive. Equal partners, remember.”

“I know, but this is a _big_ thing…We’re not normally the type to take charity, Hermione. You know that, right?”

She blushed a little. She knew how proud the Weasleys were about money, and she _was_ a little concerned about them taking it the wrong way. “Of course I know that, George.”

“Alright. I just don’t want you thinking we’re taking advantage of you.”

She blushed more at that. “George, Fred, I told you before, this is the money you would’ve had already if Ludo Bagman hadn’t swindled you out of it. And I’m expecting you two clowns to pay me back once the shop gets off the ground,” she said in an affectionate tone. “I’ve seen your business plan, and I’ve seen how dedicated you are. I know you can do it. And we need this. This war’s only going to get worse. People are going to need someone to make them laugh.”

George took her into his arms and kissed her. “What did I ever do to deserve you?” he said.

“You make me laugh, George, what else?” she said. “And I reiterate, you don’t get intimidated when I blow things up.”

“Ha! The other boys don’t know what they’re missing.”

“Where’d all this come from, anyway?” Fred asked, motioning to the bag of gold.

“It wasn’t your parents, was it?” said George. “I know they’re well-off…”

“Nope. It came from a woman in America who has more money than she’ll ever need.”

They stared at her.

“You’re not the only ones who can start a business,” she said.

“How’s that?” they asked in unison.

“Jewelry,” she answered. “You know those experiments I’ve been doing with Professor Slughorn?”

George frowned a little: “You mean the ones where you nearly poisoned yourself three times.”

“I’m fine, George. I figured out what went wrong, and I stopped doing anything without a solid grounding in theory. The point is, I can do the same thing to make jewelry. All legitimate, I promise. I wouldn’t disrespect my parents and your dad by baiting muggles or anything, and it’s carefully designed to avoid stepping outside the Statute of Secrecy.”

“Jewelry?” George repeated in confusion.

“It’s complicated and involves a lot of muggle science, George. I’ll explain more when I have time. Now, about that building…”

* * *

The next day, they were strolling down Diagon Alley, looking at the few buildings that were up for rent.

“I still say Number Ninety-Three was the best,” Fred suggested.

“Yeah. I’m definitely leaning towards that one,” George agreed. “Great location. Has a flat about the shop floor.”

“We could move in early and get a head start on setting up,” said Fred. “Maybe even call Lee over to help since he’s out of school.”

“Yeah. Plus, Hermione’s got O.W.L.s the next two weeks, so we’ll need an extra set of hands for a while,” said George. “What do you think of the building, Hermione?”

“It seems nice enough,” she said, “although you’d probably know better than I would. I was thinking, though.”

“Yes?” they said together.

“If I’m going to be an equal partner, I want some control over the creative direction of the shop. Namely, I want your creative talents on call if I have need of them. After all, you’re some of the best people I know at making enchanted items.”

“You’ve already got us, but what did you have in mind?” asked George.

“Well, first off, I _was_ working on a project to see how tough my basilisk-skin coat was, but I had to set it aside. But for comparison, I was wondering if you had any ideas to make an ordinary cloak stronger.”

The Twins murmured ideas back and forth in half-sentences. “Make a cloak stronger—”

“Without turning it to stone or something crazy—”

“Would need to be a spell—”

“Hm…a cloak enchanted with a Shield Charm, maybe?”

“That could be a really good idea. The Headless Hats work great. It’s the same principle.”

“I’d bet we’d sell lots, even though it’s not a prank.”

Fred and George both grinned madly. “Hermione, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful partnership,” Fred said. “Shield Cloaks. People will love having them. Got any other ideas?”

“Well…that Portable Swamp of yours is pretty impressive,” she said. “Since we’re talking defensive gear, do you think you could make a quicksand version?”

Fred and George stared at each other again.

“Portable Quicksand?” George said. “You _are_ a devious little witch, aren’t you?”

Hermione just smiled, remembering what she said the day before, and said, “I’m not bad. I’m just drawn that way,” much to their confusion.

* * *

The one bright spot of those last weeks for the students still at Hogwarts was the Quidditch final, in which Ron finally found his rhythm and played a perfect game as Keeper, crushing Ravenclaw and winning the Quidditch Cup. Better yet (for him), since the House Cup was basically over, it made it that much bigger a victory for Gryffindor.

Umbridge was still there, of course, but she had no real power anymore. She liked to pretend she did, but everyone knew there was very little she could actually do with no one but Filch and Snape supporting her. With exams coming up, the student body was mostly ignoring her, which was probably about the worst thing they could do to that woman.

Yet there were still trouble signs. By the end of May, Hagrid was looking very anxious, and no one could quite figure out why. Some people suggested he thought he was about to get sacked. Others said he was secretly hiding Dumbledore and was going to be arrested. Ron and Ginny managed to weasel out of McGonagall that his problem wasn’t Order-related, but she claimed not to know anything beyond that.

Meanwhile, Voldemort was still keeping quiet—too quiet. Snape reported that he was trying to recruit, especially from the werewolves, but other than that, he was worryingly silent. Since he couldn’t lure Harry into the Department of Mysteries anymore, no one was quite sure what he would do next, and that was not a good sign.

Then, O.W.L.s came.

Hermione was going to just take the Knight Bus to Hogwarts, but to her surprise, early on the first morning of examinations, an Auror showed up at her door at home. It was Tonks.

“Tonks? What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Hi, Hermione. I’m here to escort you to Hogwarts,” she said. “Don’t worry, you aren’t in trouble…Well, you are a little bit, but it’s nothing to worry about. It’s just that the ‘Headmistress’ requested an Auror Escort to keep you from ‘causing trouble’—something about a prior intrusion in the school. I’m to pick up Harry on the way as well.”

Hermione groaned. “It figures she’d get in one last dig at me,” she said. “Well, as long as it doesn’t interfere with my exams, lead the way.”

They took the Knight Bus to Hogwarts together. Hermione was well-prepared for her exams, of course, as always. It was a gruelling week, though: theory in the morning and practicals in the afternoon every day. Charms on Monday, Transfiguration on Tuesday, Herbology on Wednesday—which she unfortunately thought she wouldn’t do as well on without practical classes, Defence on Thursday, and the half-day Runes exam on Friday. The only really notable incident that week came in her Defence practical with Madam Marchbanks. Hermione was fired up all through the exam, running her own mental commentary as she was asked to perform each spell.

“A Stunning Spell,” Madam Marchbanks said.

 _“Stupefy!”_ she said, casting the spell. _But if it were a Death Eater, I_ _’d use something that would put them down a lot longer_.

“A Binding Hex.”

 _“Incarcerous!” I’d like to see Umbridge’s face if I did that to_ her _right now_ , she thought as she shot a smug look at the pink toad across the Hall.

“And the spell to banish a boggart?” Madam Marchbanks asked.

“Well, it’s _Riddikulus_ , ma’am, but my boggart is a dementor, so I use the Patronus Charm.”

“Oh? You can cast the Patronus Charm?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then for a bonus point, let’s see it.”

Hermione smirked at Umbridge and cast, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

“Excellent!” Marchbanks said as she regarded the silver otter appreciatively. Umbridge seemed to scowl particularly deeply, as if the avatar of pure joy were a personal affront. “Another stellar performance, Miss Granger,” Marchbanks concluded. “You may go.”

“Thank you, ma’am. Oh, by the way, there’s something I’ve been wondering. “If you don’t mind me asking, you told me last year that one of the two brilliant students you tested in the past never became famous. What was his name?”

“Hm? Oh, it was Riddle. Tom Riddle, I believe. Do you know him?”

Hermione nodded gravely, wondering what she would think if she knew what truly became of him. “I’ve met him once or twice…but we didn’t get along.”

The following Monday was Potions, which Hermione was extremely confident about thanks to Professor Slughorn’s teaching. However, she was worried about her performance in her Magical Creatures exam on Tuesday. The bowtruckle she was handling smelled her spare wands and got in a fight with her over them, and then she singed herself with the fire crab. (“They’re from _Fiji_ ,” she grumbled. “Why are we taking care of them in Britain?”) Fortunately, she at least knew how to _treat_ burns pretty well by now, if not prevent them.

Wednesday, she got a day off while the fifth years were taking their Arithmancy exam, but Thursday she was not looking forward to. Thursday was the Astronomy exam, and while she was confident in her abilities, the practical was held at midnight, and she had another one the next morning, so though she was loathe to do it, she approached Umbridge when she arrived.

“Excuse me…Headmistress,” she said. “I’m taking the Muggle Studies exam in the morning. Would you be willing to give me permission to stay at the castle overnight for that?”

“Muggle Studies?” Umbridge said suspiciously. “I don’t believe you ever took Muggle Studies, Miss Granger.”

“No, ma’am, but I’m confident I can pass the exam. I was told I could take it without taking the class.”

“Oh? And if the rules were to change so that were no longer permitted?” she asked.

To Hermione’s surprise, Tonks narrowed her eyes at the woman and said, “You _could_ do that, Headmistress…but you won’t.”

“ _Really?_ And why is that, Auror?”

“Because Madam Bones will throw a fit if you don’t let her Remedial Potions classes take their exams, and so would St. Mungo’s. Think of the public relations if we couldn’t get enough new Healers next year.”

Umbridge glared, but she knew she couldn’t win that one. “Of course. How…silly of me,” she grumbled. “Just the same, I cannot permit you to stay here overnight, Miss Granger—nor you, Mr. Potter, before you ask. That would _certainly_ be against the spirit of Educational Decree Number Thirty.”

There was no use arguing the point, so Hermione and Harry had to settle for going home at two o’clock in the morning and coming back the next day, and Tonks wasn’t happy, either, since she was the one who had to wait up for them.

It was about one-thirty when all hell broke loose.

Harry nudged her and pointed down to the grounds where she saw that the front doors of the castle had opened. She looked down from the Astronomy Tower with her telescope to see a short, squat figure who must have been Umbridge walking across the front lawn with several other indistinct figures towards Hagrid’s hut and go inside. A few minutes later, there was a loud _BANG!_ and his hut flew open.

Hagrid barrelled out of his hut and ran across the lawn. “Yeh can’ take me like this!” he bellowed.

“Oh, no!” Hermione squeaked.

“Hagrid, be reasonable!” a man’s voice yelled.

“I’ll be reasonable when yeh get yer head out o’ yer arse, Dawlish!” Hagrid yelled.

Red light flashed, but to Hermione’s astonishment, Stunner after Stunner bounced off Hagrid’s body seemingly without effect. It didn’t seem possible. She knew giants were amazingly tough, but according to Ron, about thirty Stunners would knock out a full-grown dragon, which she thought ought to be comparable, and Hagrid was a lot smaller than a dragon and not full-blooded. One Stunner caught Fang, and Hagrid roared in anger, picking up the Auror who cast it and throwing him across the lawn.

The front doors of the castle opened again. “How dare you!” Professor McGonagall shouted as she ran across the lawn, a pink-haired figure hurrying behind her. “How _dare_ you. Leave him alone! He hasn’t done anything to warrant such—”

But her words were cut off as all four of the remaining Aurors hit her with Stunners at once, and she went down hard.

“NO!” half the class screamed, all thoughts of the exam forgotten while a voice from the lawn yelled, “STOP IT!” Tonks threw up a shield between McGonagall and the Aurors, and—so far as Hermione could see—checked her pulse. “You could have killed her, you idiots!” she shouted. “How many times to we have to tell you? Massed Stunners are for cover fire _only!_ When I tell the Boss you tried to use lethal force—”

But, Tonks’s words were cut off by an even more hideous roar, and the class witnessed the most terrifying sight of all. A huge figure stomped out of the trees, its footsteps falling like thunderclaps. It had the rough shape of a man, but it was far too huge, and it roared with the fearsome power of some prehistoric beast.

_“HAGGER!”_

Hermione’s classmates screamed again, as did the Aurors this time. It was a giant—a full blooded one. Hagrid must have brought one back from Russia and not told anyone. No wonder he’d been so injured, dragging that thing along. The giant towered head and shoulders above Hagrid and then some, and upon seeing Hagrid under attack, it ripped a small tree from the ground, roots and all, and brandished it like a club.

The Aurors retreated. The giant advanced, swinging the tree, but Hagrid yelled out, “No, Grawpy! No! We got ter go!” He took the brunt of a swing of the tree in the shoulder and gave the giant a shove back towards the Forbidden Forest. He ran into the trees, still hurling invective at the Aurors. To the relief of all, the giant followed.

“What the bloody hell was that?” Ron summed up the situation.

“I was hoping _you_ knew,” Hermione said.

“No. I never knew anything about a bloody _giant_ in the Forest. What was it doing here?”

“Hagrid must’ve brought it,” Harry said. “Although that might be his worst idea ever—including the Skrewts.”

They turned in their exams as-is. Professor Tofty was as indignant about McGonagall being cursed without provocation as the students were. Harry and Hermione hurried down to find Tonks and see if they were alright, but they soon found Tonks levitating an unconscious McGonagall and hurrying in the opposite direction.

“Oh, good, there you are,” Tonks said quickly. “Listen, I hate to do this to you, but I’ve got to get McGonagall to St. Mungo’s. She’s lucky to be alive, and she’s not doing too well. Umbridge still won’t let you stay, so you’ll have to get home on your own.”

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say, but Harry nodded and said, “Go. We’ll be okay.”

“Great.”

Hermione finally found her words again. “We’d better hurry,” she said. “We don’t want to be out in the middle of the night any longer than necessary.”

“I can’t believe Umbridge is making you go home at two in the morning,” Ron said.

“Well, we don’t have much choice, do we?” Harry grumbled. “Don’t worry. We’ll be fine.”

Hermione and Harry rushed down to the front gates under the stern glare of Umbridge, where they called the Knight Bus.

“Late night?” the conductor asked.

“More than you know,” Hermione said as she handed over her fare. “Take us home, Stan.”

“Will do.” They sat down on a bed and gripped the rails as the bus took off.

Hermione sighed. “Long day,” she murmured.

“Yeah, and History tomorrow,” Harry said. “Why even bother?”

“It’s required, for one. But you’re right. It’s not doing anyone any good with Binns.”

They stopped. The Knight Bus trip had been much shorter than usual, and Hermione was pretty sure they weren’t next in the queue. “Your stop, Mr. Potter,” Stan said.

Harry got up, oblivious, but he stopped at the door when he saw where they were. “This isn’t where we’re supposed to be,” he said.

“Yes it is.” Stan’s voice seemed to go flatter.

“No it’s not. This is the Ministry.”

“Please get off the Bus,” Stan said in a monotone. Hermione suddenly registered that he was behind them now, between them and the interior of the Bus.

“This is not my stop,” Harry insisted.

“Get off the bus.” Stan raised his wand.

Hermione whipped out her own wand and cast _“Protego!”_ on general principle. Stan hit them with a Banishing Charm, which nearly pushed them out the door with its force, but her shield held. “Harry!” she yelled.

Harry was already casting hexes fast and furious. But Stan dodged with seemingly superhuman skill. Suddenly, the normally-witless conductor shouted out, _“Avada Kedavra!”_ , and a sickly green bolt of light raced towards them, slightly above their heads.

In the confined space by the door, there was only once place they could go. Harry and Hermione toppled over backwards and out the door, landing on their arses on the pavement below. Hermione raised her wand again, ready for anything, but before they could get up, the doors of the Knight Bus slammed shut, and it took off with a tremendous _BANG!_

“What the hell?” Harry said.

“There you are!”

Hermione spun around towards the voice and was horrified to see two figures step out of the shadows wearing black robes and white skull masks. It was a kidnapping. And they’d just been caught. Her first reaction was probably the most sensible one, but ultimately futile.

“Dob— _MMPF!_ ” A gag was conjured over her mouth.

“No calling your demented little elf tonight, mudblood,” the hateful voice of Lucius Malfoy hissed. “ _Incarcerous!_ You’re coming with us.”

Hermione tried to shield, but whilst gagged and sprawled on the ground, she couldn’t cast easily. A moment later, her arms were pinned to her sides, unable to move. She was them unceremoniously hauled to her feet by the other Death Eater. She didn’t recognise him, but he was very tall, with muscular arms and a ghastly grin beneath the bottom of his mask.

Lucius waved his wand over the two of them, and Hermione was dismayed to see her right sleeve glow. He reached in and pulled out her red oak wand and pocketed it along with her vine wood wand and Harry’s holly one. “Clever girl,” he said. “Can’t have you breaking out, now. Not when the Dark Lord’s victory is so close. _Now—_ ” He jabbed his wand in Harry’s back and the tall Death Eater did the same to her. _“Move.”_

Hermione walked forward towards the visitor’s entrance of the Ministry. Her one consolation was that she could still feel one of her homemade wands against her leg, tucked into an old-fashioned garter belt—and hadn’t she felt paranoid before, doing _that?_ Lucius’s spell must have passed over it because it used her own hair instead of a magical core. But it only did her any good if only she could reach it without them noticing—and only if she knew what to do with it if she did.

“Welcome to the Ministry of Magic. Please state your name and business,” a voice in the telephone box said.

“Lucius Malfoy, Walden Macnair, Harry Potter, and Hermione Granger,” he said. “Kidnapping.” Four badges slid out of the coin return. “As if they ever check these records anyway,” he smirked.

Hermione’s heart raced even faster, if it were possible. Something about his tone said they weren’t planning on leaving any witnesses, either. A claustrophobia she never knew she possessed set in as the telephone box sank into the ground leaving her trapped, bound and gagged, with two psychopaths hellbent on killing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit to bexis1 for the Portable Quicksand.


	31. Chapter 31

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The Anti-Alohomora Charm cannot stop JK Rowling.
> 
> To all those who have been waiting patiently, you will finally see the fate of Umbridge. Amazingly, the idea didn’t even come to me until I was in the middle of writing the scene, but I think it works. It may not be as violent as many of you want to see, but her life, her reputation, and everything she cares about are destroyed, and I think it’s about the most that could plausibly happen to her with legitimate authority figures watching.
> 
> It never sat right with me how Hermione used a locking spell in the DoM that could be countered with a first-year charm, so I fixed that.

In a run-down section of London, a telephone box sank into the ground with two teenagers held bound and gagged by two of Voldemort’s deadliest followers inside.

“You’ve made a lot of trouble for the Dark Lord, Potter,” Lucius Malfoy said cordially. “It would’ve been a lot easier if you’d just followed the visions he was sending you. Luckily, you were expelled, and we knew there would be one night you were travelling late. It was child’s play to get you two alone.”

Harry made a muffled sound that from its inflection sounded like words that even Sirius wouldn’t let him say in front of him.

Hermione tried to ignore how likely she was to die in the next hour and did her best to calm herself with every Occlumency technique she knew. Her mind raced through the possibilities. She had enough room to manoeuvre that if she turned the right way, she _might_ be able to get her hand into her skirt to reach the homemade wand tucked into her garter belt. But what could she do with it? It was pointing straight down at her foot with no more than an inch to move it. She’d have to vanish the ropes that bound her before she could do anything else, and they’d notice instantly.

Could she do _anything_ with her wand pointed where it was? She could break her foot, but that would just make matters worse. She couldn’t curse the lift without knowing what would happen to it. An area effect spell? Not pointing down. It would have to affect the air somehow—wait, could that do it? She was in an enclosed space—a small one. She was pretty sure it would. But she’d have to pull it off before they reached the Atrium.

There was nothing for it. She’d have to try it. She was sure she was dead otherwise, and at least this spell was _her_ territory.

Hermione concentrated even harder on her Occlumency, trying to clear her mind of all emotion. As quickly as she could, she worked her fingers into her skirt at an angle she hoped the Death Eaters wouldn’t notice. Her fingers found the butt of her holdout wand and gripped it just enough to slide it in a complex pattern. Behind the gag, she focused and whispered the words she had devised as best she could: _“Aeras Ekto Meros Nitron.”_

And she held her breath.

With great effort, she felt magic surge down her arm, and through her holdout wand. Around her, the air began to change, the very molecules rearranging themselves, the double and triple bonds of oxygen and nitrogen breaking and new ones forming. In the small lift compartment, the oxygen levels dropped precipitously, and the level of another molecule that Hermione was very familiar with rose: nitrous oxide.

This was quite possibly the most dangerous thing she’d ever done, and that included facing off against a millennium-old basilisk. Nitrous oxide was rapidly intoxicating and could asphyxiate you if you weren’t careful. If she was caught by the Death Eaters and prevented from reversing the spell when it had done its work, she would pass out and maybe die. If she accidentally breathed in a lungful of the stuff, she would pass out and maybe die. If she couldn’t break out of her bonds fast enough, she would pass out and maybe die. And if they got to the Atrium too fast and got fresh air, the Death Eaters would recover and would _definitely_ kill her.

Looking beside her, she saw Harry and the two Death Eaters swaying and looking around dizzily. Harry’s eyes widened in fear as he couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt lightheaded and was losing his grip on reality. Lucius Malfoy saw this and correctly concluded Hermione was the cause. He spun around and brandished his wand at her.

“What did you—Ha!—what did you…do…?” he managed to say before his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed to the floor. Macnair went down next and Harry on top of him a couple seconds later.

Hermione immediately stopped the molecular rearrangement spell and used her precious air to whisper, _“Evanesco. Evanesco. Evanesco,”_ behind her gag. She only had a minute or two before Harry suffered brain damage from the asphyxia, and she didn’t know how she had long before they reached the Atrium. _“Evanesco!”_ she pushed harder.

 _SNAP!_ The ropes vanished. Pulling her holdout wand out as fast as she could, she ripped off the gag and shouted, _“Ebublio!”_

She took a deep breath. Fresh air. The Bubble-Head Charm held. She cast it a second time on Harry and tried to haul him up, but she knew it would be some time before he was conscious again.

“Come on, Harry. Wake up. Wake up!” she grunted as she tried to lift his arm onto her shoulders. _“Rennervate!”_

“Huh? Wha?” He blinked and looked around groggily. She supposed she should be happy the spell did that much.

“Oh, never mind.” She sorted her priorities and dropped him again, instead turning to riffle through the Death Eaters’ pockets. She quickly found Harry’s wand and her two. After another moment’s thought, she picked up Malfoy’s and Macnair’s wands where they had dropped them on the floor. With a whole handful of wands in one hand, she lifted Harry up again just in time.

 _Ding!_ The doors opened, and they spilt out into the Atrium.

Hermione pulled Harry out of the lift. He was on his feet now, but just barely. She didn’t think she could pull the two men out to get back to the surface, so she decided to try the Floos, but before they could reach them, she heard a haunting feminine voice shout, “They’re loose! Stop them!”

Dark curses flew through the air, but just as quickly, the woman shouted again, “Not that way! We need Potter alive! Wall them in and call for backup.” Before Hermione could react, the woman had created a wall of fire around them as casually as if she were lighting a candle. Hermione spun around searching for an escape. Where did she get that kind of power? The fire didn’t even trap them in a circle. It spread down the floor of the Atrium, past the Floo banks, creating a path for them to reach the building lifts. The woman was toying with them.

Hermione ran, pulling Harry with her. With no other options, they ran into the nearest lift, hoping they could take it up to a different floor, but it was no use. As soon as they were inside, a spell struck the lift, and it fell with a horrible lurch as if the cable had snapped, dropping them violently down to level nine. Harry took the initiative, then, and tried the stairs down to the courtrooms, but the way was barred, leaving the only escape forward into the Department of Mysteries itself. They kept running, and Hermione used one of her wands to tap out a message on her ring in Morse code: _SOS AT MINISTRY HJG HJP_

* * *

At Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, four people who were sleepily waiting up for Harry to return for the night grew suddenly alert as nearly-forgotten gold-plated rings on their hands began to heat up. The looked down and saw the made-up symbols had morphed into English letters and were glowing bright red.

“SOS?” Molly Weasley said. “What’s SOS?”

“It’s a muggle code for boats,” Arthur said cheerfully. Then, his face fell as he added, “It means, ‘Save Our Ship’.”

“It’s a universal call for help,” Remus clarified.

Sirius put two and two together: “Crap! That means Harry’s in trouble at the Ministry.” He shot off a firecracker with his wand. “CODE RED! CODE RED!” he yelled. “ASSEMBLE THE TROOPS!”

* * *

At Ninety-Three, Diagon Alley, three teenage boys were sprawled across various pieces of furniture, finally passed out from a late night working to prepare the shop. Suddenly, two of them jerked awake, trying to make sense of the sudden burning sensation on their hands.

“Fred?” George said, bleary-eyed. “SOS is a call for help, isn’t it?”

“I think so…” Fred replied. “Oh, that’s bad, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” George stood up and kicked the third boy a little too hard. “Oi, Lee, wake up!” he said.

“Bugger off. What for?” Lee Jordan groaned.

“‘Cause my girlfriend’s in trouble, and we’ve got to save her!”

A couple minutes’ work had Lee on his feet, and they grabbed their brooms and took off across the London skies.

* * *

Septima Vector was trying to corral the excited fifth-years back into their dorms and clean up the mess that had been made of things during the Astronomy exam. With Minerva gone, she had volunteered to lead the Gryffindors back up to their tower. She looked down in surprise when her finger started burning. She tried to make sense of the message…and couldn’t.

 _It must be something muggle_ , she thought. _Hermione must know what it means._ She ran through the list of muggle-born students in her mind. “Mr. Thomas!” she called out. The black boy in the line turned around and looked at her. “Mr. Thomas, what does SOS mean?”

“SOS? You mean like the distress call?” he said in confusion.

“SOS is a distress call?” she said, to be clear.

“Yeah. Everyone knows that, Professor.”

“Oh, Merlin, no!” she breathed.

* * *

Cedric Diggory was woken from his bed by his ring. A few minutes racking his brain yielded no information about what the message meant, but he knew it had to be important. Hermione wouldn’t have sent it otherwise, especially at this hour. A few more minutes of shaking and prodding informed him that no one else in the house knew what SOS meant either, but he had a bad feeling his friend was in trouble.

* * *

Harry stared at his ring stupidly, still trying to snap out of his daze. “What happened?” he said.

“I rearranged the air molecules into nitrous oxide,” Hermione said.

“What?!”

“ _Later_ , Harry. What is this place?”

Harry looked up and saw a whirlwind of blue streaks spinning around them. After a few moments, it slowed and came to a stop, resolving itself into a circular room with a dozen doors spaced around it with eerie blue torches. “What the hell?” he said.

“Well, what is it?” Hermione demanded.

“How should I know?”

“You’re the one who was having visions of the Department of Mysteries.”

“I only saw the one door. I don’t know what _this_ is.”

“Oh, fine. Just pick one.” She chose a door at random and shoved it open. “Come on, we need to hide until help comes.”

They entered a short hallway that led into what looked like some kind of ritual room. A large fire burned in one corner. The opposite corner held a water fountain. A third contained a small tornado in the largest bell jar she’d ever seen, which stretched to the ceiling, and the fourth—she wasn’t quite sure how to describe it. It looked like a constantly-shifting pile of moving rock. Floating above a large circle in the middle of the room was a large, vaguely spherical region of soft, glowing light with no identifiable source. Various doors lined the edges of this room as well.

“Well, that’s interesting,” she said. She was starting to get an idea of what “mysteries” were studied here.

“Are they still coming?” Harry asked.

Hermione turned and looked at the door. She raised her wand and was about to cast a locking spell at it, but she realised that might tip them off to where they’d gone. “We can’t stay here,” she said She found Harry’s wand in her robes and handed it to him along with Lucius Malfoy’s unusually long one. “Here, now you’ll have two. Come on.” She ran around to the door between fire and earth and opened it.

She was blasted in the face by scalding heat and an intense smell of brimstone. She caught a glimpse of a room filled with molten lava before she slammed the door shut. “Not that one! Not that one!” she said as she backed away. “Wait a minute, if fire and earth make lava, then earth and water…” She opened the appropriate door. Inside was a muddy swamp, much fancier than George’s and Fred’s version, complete with miniature trees somehow growing in the dim light. She got an idea. “Harry, in here.” He rushed to follow her. She randomly cast _“Auvoleur”_ at three other doors in the apparent Alchemy Room before ducking into the swamp and sealing that one, too. “That should buy us some more time,” she said, though she thought she might need to invent a stronger locking spell. The Death Eaters would probably know how to get through the standard Anti-Alohomora Charm. “Harry, I need some wood.”

Harry broke a branch off a tree and handed it to her. “They want me to get the prophecy for them, don’t they?” he said morosely. “Dumbledore said Voldemort wanted to lure me here, but he couldn’t because I learnt Occlumency.”

“Mm hmm,” Hermione grunted noncommittally as she worked.

“Dumbledore wanted me to stay at Grimmauld Place…It wasn’t even that bad. I just had to go out to take my O.W.L.s.”

“Mmm…”

“But why did Stan attack us? That doesn’t make any sense?”

“Uh huh.”

“Hermione are you listening?”

She looked up from her work. “What?”

“What are you doing?”

“Sorry, I was setting a trap. The first Death Eater to come through that door will be in for a lot of pain.”

“What if it’s an Order member, though?” Harry asked.

Hermione frowned and bit her lip. She’d just spent a lot of valuable time stretching carbon nanotube threads a fraction of a millimetre wide tight across the door frame. Super-strong and nearly invisible, they wouldn’t be able to cut clean through a human body, but they would cut fast and deep through skin and muscle, and they wouldn’t discriminate friend from foe. Deciding she didn’t want to remove it, she tapped another message on her ring: _WATCH OUT 4 TRIP WIRES_.

* * *

“Watch out for trip wires?” Cedric said in confusion. “That _definitely_ means something’s wrong. I’m telling you, Dad, we’ve got to do something.”

“Alright, alright, son. Calm down. I’ll call up the Aurors.”

* * *

They had just picked their way across the swamp to another wall of doors on the other side when Hermione stopped. “Oh, I’m being stupid,” she said. “Dobby!”

Nothing happened.

“Dobby?” she called again.

Still nothing.

“Maybe he can’t get through the wards?” Harry suggested.

“Maybe, but I didn’t think wizards were that smart—well, I suppose the Unspeakables might be.”

“Just keep moving,” Harry said. He tried one of the doors at the back of the room. This one led into what looked like a mine—but a mine gleaming with every kind of rock, mineral, and metal imaginable.

“No, too confined,” Hermione said. She was starting to get a feel for the layout of the place—assuming the geometry wasn’t magically screwed up, which was entirely possible. “Besides, this one here takes us farther from the entrance.” She tried the door she pointed out. A rainforest. “Huh.”

They went with it, but she soon began to think that door wasn’t a good idea. The next few doors began shunting her and Harry around the circle of the Department of Mysteries rather than deeper into its recesses. Each of these rooms contained a different miniature habitat in it, from forest to desert and everything in between. This must be a different division of the Department—presumably one studying life. Hermione set a couple more tripwires across some of the doors, albeit simpler ones, but they were sure the Death Eaters were searching the Department by now, so they had to keep moving.

They finally stopped in what seemed to be the deepest chamber of the Life Division—a twenty-yard square of a volcanic ash field with flowers just starting to poke through it. There were three doors in and out of the room: desert, scrub land, and some kind of laboratory containing boxes full of various insects. Hermione placed nanotube tripwires against the scrub land door for good measure, hopefully leaving them an escape route regardless of which way the Death Eaters came in. They hid behind a rock in the back of the room to rest.

“That’s all I’ve got,” she said with a sigh. She was panting from the exertion. “I don’t suppose you’ve invented any interesting spells in Arithmancy class, Harry?”

“Me? I’m not _you_ , Hermione,” he said. “I’ve only covered the basics and what you’ve taught me. Since when can you rearrange molecules?”

“Since March. That’s the power I thought Voldemort couldn’t figure out. Damn it, I should have taught you them sooner. I was going to do it when we had our O.W.L.s out of the way. Well, no time now. They must still be looking for us—unless help’s come already, and they’re fighting them.”

“Maybe the Order will win,” Harry said optimistically. “How will we know it’s safe to come out, though?”

“They can send me messages,” she said, and she showed him her ring. It was flashing two different messages: _ON OUR WAY RJL_ and _COMING TO HELP GFW._ “At least we know they’re coming. I’d say I wish the Twins would stay out of it, but I think we need all the help we can get. God only knows what’s going on with Septima right now, though.”

* * *

It had taken a while for Septima to figure out who was still close with Hermione in the castle. Dumbledore and his confidantes were gone, except Snape, whom she wasn’t sure about. Hermione’s boyfriend was gone. Only the two youngest Weasleys were close enough that she felt confidant approaching them. When she showed them her ring, Ronald looked at the message and, once assured it was genuine, went to fetch Ginevra.

Ginerva freaked out when she saw the message, and the two of them began a hushed conversation that Septima didn’t fully understand, but it was something to the effect that Snape was the only person in the castle they could talk to, and they trusted him even less than she did.

“Can you get a hold of Auror Tonks, Professor?” Ronald asked. “She’d be able to help.”

“If I can get out of the castle, yes, but the hard part will be getting past the Headmistress.”

A hard look crossed Ginevra’s face, which made Septima certain she was going to regret this. “ _We_ _’ll_ take care of _her_ , Professor,” she said. “Ron, do you have your galleon?”

Septima was surprised again to see Ronald pull out a galleon, which Ginevra snatched and began using yet _another_ Protean Charm to send the message: _HARRY & HERM IN DANGER COME 2 GH._

“Just a moment, I didn’t mean…” Septima admonished, but it was too late. By the time they got back down to the Great Hall, she was being swept along for the ride. A couple dozen students, mostly fifth years and from all four houses had gathered together to face off against the Headmistress. Septima wasn’t sure how, but Umbridge already had all five of the fifth-year Inquisitorial Squad members plus Filch Snape there to back her up.

“Why, Professor Vector,” Umbridge said haughtily. “Whatever are you doing?”

“Mr. Potter and Miss Granger have been kidnapped, Dolores, presumably by Death Eaters—”

“And you can’t deny about _them_ ,” Ronald interrupted. “Everyone knows about the Azkaban breakout.”

“That will do, Mr. Weasley,” Septima said. “ _I_ was merely going to inform the Aurors of the incident. But as you can see, their friends were rather angry about the situation and took matters into their own hands.”

“Kidnapped, you say?” Umbridge said. “I wouldn’t trust any lies those two miscreants tell, Professor Vector.”

“Harry and Hermione aren’t liars!” Ronald jumped in.

“We all believe them,” said Parvati Patil.

“They know their stuff better than you!” Tracey Davis spoke up.

Umbridge spotted the two Slytherin girls and gaped at them. To be fair, Tracey’s friend was admonishing her as well. “Miss Davis! Miss Greengrass! What do you think you’re doing?” the “Headmistress” demanded.

“Taking a stand, Professor,” Tracey said.

Draco Malfoy sneered at them: “With Potter?”

“No, with good teaching, Malfoy,” Daphne said. “We actually learnt something from those two. Wait till _we_ _’re_ the only ones who pass our Defence O.W.L.s.”

“So you _admit_ to being members of Potter’s group—” Umbridge crowed triumphantly.

“It doesn’t matter if you expel us now, Professor,” Tracey said. “All the important exams are over, and we can always move to France.”

Umbridge’s face fell. “I don’t know _what_ _’s_ come over you girls,” she said disappointedly. “I asked you to join the Inquisitorial Squad.”

Tracey rolled her eyes. “I would’ve been more interested if you could actually teach, ma’am,” she said.

“And I owe Hermione a favour on behalf of my sister,” Daphne said, being more careful to position herself.

Severus stepped out of the shadows where he had been lurking. “I _strongly_ suggest you return to your Common Room, Miss Davis, Miss Greengrass,” he said silkily. “We will discuss this later. And the rest of you?” he addressed the students. “You believe this story that Potter and Granger have been captured?” He fixed his eyes on Septima and the Weasley pair in turn.

“Yeah!” was the shout of a lot of the students.

“I don’t condone the students’ disruption, Severus,” Septima said, staring back at him, “but as I have said before, I have every faith in Hermione Granger. She sent me a clear call for help not long ago. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“I’m afraid I can’t let you leave, Septima,” Umbridge interrupted.

Septima drew herself up as much as she could: “I think you’ll find that you can’t drag me about by the ear like you can the students, Dolores. I don’t _have_ to stay here.”

“I think you do, Septima. Your activities tonight are highly suspicious and demand immediate investigation—”

At that, Ginny jumped in front of her. “Oi! She said get out of the bloody way!” she yelled and pulled her wand on Umbridge. The Inquisitorial Squad drew theirs, but Ginny wasn’t deterred. “This is _your_ fault, Umbitch! _You_ made Harry and Hermione go home alone at two in the morning, and now they’ve been captured by Death Eaters!”

“That is a lie!” Umbridge hissed.

“It’s not!” said Neville Longbottom.

“We’ve had enough of you!” shouted Ron, and the rest of the D.A. drew their wands as well.

Septima backed away out of the line of fire. This was every teacher’s worst nightmare—completely losing control of the students because they’d utterly stopped caring about authority. She couldn’t stop several dozen angry teenagers with wands if her life depended on it. That their ire was directed against Dolores was small comfort. Any _true_ breakdown of order at Hogwarts would be a disaster.

“Professor Snape, do something!” Umbridge said.

“Miss Weasley, I insist you cease this insurrection at once. You will gain nothing from it.”

“We will as soon as Umbridge and her goons step aside, Professor,” she said. “We’re not letting our friends down.”

“Miss Weasley, you don’t need to—” Septima tried to intervene.

“I will not stand aside!” Umbridge growled. “Restrain them!”

“Miss Weasley—” Septima repeated.

But it was too late. Ginevra raised her wand high in the air and shouted, “Dumbledore’s Army!”

“Dumbledore’s Army!” the rest of the students yelled.

Umbridge’s eyes widened in horror as hexes started flying through the air. She barely had time to throw up a shield. “Stop them!” she yelled. The Inquisitorial Squad were already hexing back, but they were outnumbered four to one. Dumbledore’s Army made short work of them. Umbridge was doing better, blocking the spells being shot directly at her and throwing back some of her own. Septima hadn’t thought she could duel that well. A spell from an indeterminate source threw open the main doors of the castle as Umbridge was forced back out of the Great Hall. “Snape! Stop them!” she cried.

“I am a teacher, Headmistress, not a one-man army,” Severus called over the crowd. He was shielding himself and no more. Septima thought she saw a smirk cross his face. “I will assign detentions once things are under control.”

“Get out of our school!” Ronald yelled as the spellfire intensified.

Umbridge stumbled back, casting wildly. “AHHH! No! You’re all expelled!” she shrieked. “Everyone’s expelled! I’ll bring the Ministry down on this place—I’ll—AHH! No! No! _Crucio!_ ”

Everything stopped. In an instant, the only sound in the Great Hall was the voice of Luna Lovegood, who had caught the randomly-thrown curse and had fallen to the floor, screaming with a sound that would haunt Septima’s dreams.

Mercifully, the girl was only under the curse for about three seconds. Ginevra lunged forward, no doubt to cast something horrible, but Neville Longbottom was faster. He stormed forward in a rage that no one had ever seen from the mild-mannered boy, pointed his wand straight at Umbridge’s chest, and shouted, _“BOMBARDA!”_

The hex hit Umbridge with a sickening crack, and she flew thirty feet through the air like a rag doll, landing in the open doors of the castle, where she lay still. No one spoke for a moment. Draco Malfoy twitched, but Longbottom turned his wand on him in a blink. It was smoking, but neither boy seemed to notice. “You want some, Malfoy?” he hissed. Draco wisely backed down.

Ginevra, who probably would have done something even worse to Umbridge had Neville not beat her to it, ran forward to check on her friend. “Are you alright, Luna?” she said, cradling her head.

“That was most unpleasant,” the girl murmured.

Ginevra sighed. “Thank you, Neville,” she said.

“Anytime.”

Everyone else was still staring at Umbridge, not sure how to react. She had always been so careful to operate within the law, as unjust as it was, that it was all the more shocking to finally see her slip. How had it come to this? Septima wondered. Dolores had always been a nasty woman, but she hadn’t believed her foolish enough to cast illegal spells, even under pressure. It was then that Septima decided to take charge. Perhaps she could kill two birds with one stone. She calmly walked towards her old roommate, bent down, and checked the woman’s pulse. Still alive. She couldn’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment. Probably a few broken ribs, though, and a concussion. She stood up straight and looked at the crowd.

“I will take Madam Umbridge to St. Mungo’s,” she said. “I will also speak with the Aurors about this—” She nodded significantly to the Weasleys. “—and you may rest assured that she will not be Headmistress or hold any other position at Hogwarts any longer. Under the circumstances, I believe Professor Flitwick will fill the role of Acting Headmaster for the time being.”

There was a brief silence, and then, the Great Hall erupted into cheers.

* * *

Harry and Hermione were still hiding behind the rock in the ash field when they heard a crash and a scream.

“ARGH! I’m going to kill that mudblood!”

They looked up and saw two Death Eaters running in from the scrub land room. One was bleeding heavily with his robes half-shredded.

“There they are! _Reducto!_ ”

Harry and Hermione cast Stunning Spells behind them and started to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ebublio: adapted from the Lego Harry Potter video game.
> 
> Aeras Ekto Meros Nitron: Greek words for “air”, “sixth-part”, and “nitrate”, indicating that the air is to be oxidised one sixth as much as nitrate compounds, which produces nitrous oxide.
> 
> Auvoleur: stylised from the French for “Stop, thief!”


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own a bunch of spells and, you know, the plot and stuff. JK Rowling owns everything else.
> 
> Thanks to Okamy, who has begun translating The Arithmancer into Russian. You can find the translated story at “fanfics (dot) me (slash) fic98289”.

Harry and Hermione ran through the rooms of the Department of Mysteries with two Death Eaters hot on their heels.

 _“Reducto!”_ Hermione yelled. “Harry, the cases! _Reducto!_ ”

They shattered several glass cases filled with Merlin knew what kinds of magically modified insects as they passed, hoping to set them on the Death Eaters.

 _“Incendio!”_ The Death Eaters burned their way through the swarms immediately.

“This way!” Harry pulled Hermione through another door, and she cast a locking charm behind them on it. This room was even worse than the last one. Here in glass cases were still-beating hearts, self-breathing lungs, disembodied eyeballs that moved on their own, and all manner of other body parts from various animals.

“What _is_ all this?” Hermione gasped.

“Who cares? Keep moving!” Harry said. They kept running, praying they wouldn’t run into any more Death Eaters. Unfortunately, they couldn’t escape all of the ones who were searching for them.

 _“Stupefy!”_ Two more black-robed figures burst in from a side door that she guessed led back to the original round room.

 _“Zwinger!”_ Hermione cast automatically. The spell bounced off the double-layered shield Professor Slughorn had taught her. One of the Death Eaters followed up with a powerful Piercing Hex that shattered the outer layer of her shield but thankfully didn’t get past the inner one. She cast _“Extonio!”_ back with her red oak wand, and the Flashbang Spell blew up in his face, making him stagger back. She waved her vinewood wand to reinforce her shield back to two layers.

 _“Parasthesia! Labyrinthitis! Refrigera Manibus! Palpebrae Plumbum!”_ Harry cast rapid fire at the other one, shouting all of the incapacitating spells she had taught him. He clearly had her beat in speed—probably power, too—but his hexes bounced off the Death Eaters’ shields, and she regretted now not teaching him more destructive spells.

 _“Bombarda!”_ she yelled, and that got through. “Harry, that’s not going to cut it. You need more powerful—”

There was a loud bang, and Hermione felt herself flying through the air as a massive force slammed into her side. She sprawled on the floor, her shield shattered. She scrambled to find her wands as the Death Eater loomed over her. “We don’t need _you_ , mudblood,” he said. _“Diffindo!”_

 _“Frasso!”_ The little-used Single-Hex Shield Charm was the fastest one she knew to cast, and it just barely stopped the hex that would have cut her throat. She looked up in fear at the skull mask. It was the first time since Macnair had grabbed her that Hermione was certain they were trying to kill her. She used the Death Eater’s split second of surprise to snap off the triple twirl she had practised so hard: _“Dridristaub!”_ The Death Eater dodged, but not fast enough, as her latest creation, the Shotgun Curse, sent sixteen miniature Piercing Hexes into his chest and right shoulder. He fell to the ground, screaming. He wouldn’t be using a wand again anytime soon.

 _“Bombarda! Stupefy!”_ Harry was getting the idea. His two spell combo had the other Death Eater down for the count.

“Good job,” she said breathlessly. “Don’t be afraid to use deadly spells if you have to. Remember some of those new curses I taught you?”

Harry gulped and nodded with a determined expression. They ran to the next room, sealing the door behind them again, and Hermione stopped short. If she thought the vivisection room was bad, this one would really give her nightmares. A large tank stood in the middle of the nearly-empty room with melon-sized, grey, wrinkled orbs swimming around in it. “They have brains in a vat,” she said. “Why do they have brains in a vat?”

There was a bang behind them, and the muffled sound of shouting: “No, leave him! Leave him! The Dark Lord only wants the prophecy. Wake _him_ up.”

“Not the time!” Harry said. He grabbed her by the hand and led her along the wall. They tried to double back by going through one of the other doors on that side of the room, but it turned out to lead to a completely different division. This room was dark and unfurnished, and it was a good deal larger than ought to have fit in the floor plan. The only things in it were floating and spinning models of the planets (not to scale, sadly), and a glowing Sun at the centre. They ran anyway. They were about halfway across the room when—

_BANG!_

They turned to see that two more Death Eaters had burst through the opposite door. “Other way! Other way!” Harry yelled as Stunning Spells started flying at them. _“Depulso!_ ” He banished a bunch of asteroids at them to throw them off balance.

 _“Non Perturbare!”_ Hermione threw as much power as she could into the Imperturbable Charm and cast it on the wide, bare floor under their feet. The frictionless surface sent the Death Eaters sprawling. They ran back through the Brain Room and on to the next one, sealing that door as well. They kept running, but they slowed as they noticed the appearance of the room. It was large, and built much like an amphitheatre with over-size stone benches circling a stone dais in the middle. The whole room was lit with an eerie blue light, but the only thing that looked remotely like an object of study was a stone arch on top of the dais in which a tattered black veil hung, flapping slightly as though in an unfelt breeze. Whispers seemed to emanate from the arch that they could hear all the way at the edge of the room. It was almost as if it were calling to them.

“What is it?” Harry said.

“I don’t know, but I have a really bad feeling about it,” Hermione answered. Suddenly, she saw that they were standing completely still. They had slowed to a stop without even noticing. “Harry! We have to keep moving!” she urged, and she pulled him along as he had to her before on to the next room.

This next room was even more dimly lit, the only light coming from thousands of glowing orbs of various sizes lining many towering shelves. It was barely enough to navigate by, but Harry started forward anyway. Hermione, however, had a bad feeling about it completely different from the feeling she got from that veil. _“Lumos,”_ she said, and she leaned over and read the nearest nameplate below one of the orbs.

 

_M.W. to A.A._

_Fall of Rome_

_15 September 476_

She put two and two together. “Bugger! Harry, we have to go back!” she hissed.

“What? Why?”

“This is the Hall of Prophecy! This is the last place we want to be!”

But before they could run, a horrible echoing cackle rang out like the voice of the Wicked Witch of the West, and a curtain of fire appeared between them and the door they had entered.

“Bellatrix!” she said.

“Run!”

They ran past the shelf and down one of the long aisles. The curtain of fire extended down the walls, and a tendril followed behind them like a burning trail of gasoline. They tried to branch off down one of the opposite aisles, but the fire was ahead of them, blocking their path. They saw a door at Row Fifty-Three, but they were again cut off by the flames.

“Flame-Freezing Charms!” Hermione said. Hadn’t witches and wizards been using those since the Dark Ages? They cast the spell on the flames to try to get to the door, and the heat momentarily vanished, but then it returned as the flames flared higher than before, pushing them back to the centre aisle.

“You’ll have to do better than that, Bitty Baby Potter!” Bellatrix cackled. They were trapped. She was too strong for them. Hermione still didn’t understand how she could sling fire around like that. The lines of flames pushed them towards the far end of the room. For a brief moment, Hermione hoped they could get out that way, but it cut off the path in front of them, then to their right, and then behind, forcing them down Row Ninety-Seven.

The fire cut off both exits, confining them to the one row. A brief gap appeared, and two robed figures stepped through the flames. These two were not wearing masks, though. Hermione recognised both of them from the wanted posters: Bellatrix Lestrange, and Augustus Rookwood, the former Unspeakable.

“Causing a wot of twouble tonight, aren’t you, kiddies?” Bellatrix said in a baby-talk voice. Hermione hadn’t thought there could be anything worse than Dolores Umbridge talking to her like she was five whilst torturing her with the Quill, but Bellatrix Lestrange had her beat. “It would’ve been so much easier if you’d come with Lucius and Macnair. Now, Avery’s face may never be the same again, not that he was a looker to start with!” She cackled at her own joke.

Hermione felt a warming sensation on her hand. Her ring was heating up. She glanced down at her left hand and saw a letter ‘T’ appear.

“What do you want with me?” Harry said, playing dumb. It was then that she noticed that he was holding Lucius Malfoy’s wand in his left hand awkwardly, allowing him to tap his own ring against it. Two times, three times—‘I’.

“Don’t you know, Potty?” Bellatrix said. “Dumb-as-a-door didn’t tell you? There’s a prophecy about you, Potter, and it’s right there.” She pointed with her wand, and the pair half-turned to the side to see an orb with a nameplate that read:

 

_S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D._

_Dark Lord_

_and (?) Harry Potter_

_23 February 1980_

 

Three times, two times—‘M’. Hermione didn’t need to wait for the last letter. He was playing for time. The Order knew Voldemort wanted the prophecy. When they arrived, this would be the first place they looked. They just needed to stall until they arrived.

“The Dark Lord wants that Prophecy, Potter, and you’re going to get it for us,” Bellatrix said.

“Why me?” Harry’s voice sounded almost calm, but Hermione could tell he was shaking with terror. “Why go to all this trouble? Why not just grab it yourself since you’re here?”

“Don’t be stupid, Potter,” Rookwood growled. “You should know that only you and the Dark Lord can take the prophecy from the shelf.”

“Then have him come get it if he wants it so bad.”

“The Dark Lord come here?” Bellatrix snapped. “Wittle baby thinks he’s being funny? He’s too _smart_ to come here—not when big bad Minister Fudge is keeping him so well hidden.” She switched to a deep, mannish voice when she said Fudge’s name. “Why would the Dark Lord come out in the open when he can just have you get it for him? Hmm? Now…here’s how it’s going to be.” She adopted a lecturing voice that sounded disturbingly like Umbridge. “You’re going to hand over that prophecy, and we’ll let your know-it-all mudblood girlfriend live.”

“Don’t do it, Harry,” Hermione said quickly.

“Be quiet, mudblood!”

“Don’t do it! We can’t trust them. They already tried to kill me once.”

“Did we? Well, we’ll _definitely_ do it if you don’t do as you’re told, Potty.” Bellatrix levelled her wand at Hermione.

“Do it, and I’ll smash the prophecy before you can get it,” Harry cut in. He had a shield up with one wand and he took a step back to where he could easily blast the prophecy on the shelf with other. That was a gamble. They didn’t know if the orbs were charmed Unbreakable or something, but it seemed to work because Bellatrix and Rookwood backed off.

“So, wittle Potty know how to pway,” Bellatrix said. “But there’s one tiny problem…She’ll be dead either way if you break it.” She pointed her wand at Hermione again.

“But what will Voldemort do to you if you lose it?” Harry said.

“You dare speak his name?!” She turned her wand on him. “I should—”

“No!” Rookwood grabbed her arm. “We need the prophecy first. We don’t have to _kill_ the mudblood to convince Potter. We just have to make him understand the _cost_ of disobeying.”

A sadistic smile crossed Bellatrix’s face. “Of course,” she said, turning her wand back on Hermione. “You may have _your_ bargaining chip, Potter, but there’s a lot more we can _do_ to ours.”

Hermione thought fast. No magical shield would stop the woman’s favourite spell, and she didn’t fancy being exposed for one second to a curse that could cause severe brain damage. She tried the James Bond ploy. “How did you get Stan Shunpike in on this?” she said quickly. “He’s not a Death Eater. He’s too young.” She was counting on Bellatrix being the kind of cartoon villain who liked to gloat and monologue to buy more time. Time _was_ on her and Harry’s side in one respect: the Death Eaters weren’t expecting help to come right away. _But where are they?_ she thought.

Fortunately, Bellatrix _did_ have a megalomaniacal streak. “Too dumb to be is more like it,” she said with a laugh. “We used the Imperius Curse, obviously. We knew you kiddies were taking the bus to your wittle tests. We knew you would be coming home _late._ And it was so _easy_ for Luci to arrange a distraction tonight.”

So _he_ was behind Hagrid’s arrest. “That monster,” Hermione spat. “He’s the reason Sturgis Podmore was Kissed, isn’t he? Why Broderick Bode was killed?”

“No one likes a know-it-all, mudblood,” Bellatrix said. “And you’ve wasted enough time. _Bombarda!_ ”

The curse was so powerful that it crashed right through her shield and kept going, slamming into her left shoulder. She felt her collarbone crack, and she staggered in pain, unable to cast a new shield.

“No! _Reducto!_ ” Harry yelled. The spell lanced out at the prophecy sphere, but just before reaching it, it bounced off a shield that appeared from nowhere. He turned and saw Rookwood waving his wand in his direction.

“Oh, didn’t I mention that?” Rookwood said smugly.

Harry looked back and forth between the two Death Eaters fearfully, and then, with one swipe, he dropped Lucius’s wand and picked up the prophecy and held it high about his head, still maintaining a shield with his own wand, though it must be fatiguing him by now.. “I can still smash it!” he said.

“Harry, no!” Hermione coughed. That was exactly what they wanted him to do.

“Very good, Potter,” Rookwood said. “That’s the hard part done.” He made a complicated gesture with his wand and started muttering under his breath. Suddenly, a light shone against Harry’s shield, and instead of shattering, it began to burn away slowly. Harry raised his hand higher as if to drop the prophecy, but Bellatrix called out “Ah ah ah,” wagging her finger as she twirled her wand at Hermione. _“Percutio!”_

 _“Frasso!”_ Once again, the thin layer of magic blocked the potentially-lethal hex just in time. Bellatrix just laughed as Harry was seized with indecision, and Hermione was sure her next spell would be something she couldn’t block. It was now or never. They had to get out. She pointed her red oak wand at Bellatrix’s heart and screamed out, _“Commotio Cordis!”_

Bellatrix lazily raised a shield but then, the seemingly impossible happened. A blue bolt of energy flew at her chest—a simple bolt of magic no more dangerous than a cricket ball. But then, so fast it was nearly impossible to see, it winked out of existence in front of her shield and back into existence behind it, striking her square in the chest. The wicked witch had just enough time for her eyes to nearly pop out of her skull in shock before she collapsed to the floor, clutching her chest.

 _“Dridristaub! Extonio!”_ Harry cast Hermione’s Shotgun Curse and followed up with the much easier Flashbang Spell. The first shattered Rookwood’s shield, and the second hit him square in the face, sending him reeling back against the shelves.

 _“Accio wand!”_ Hermione retrieved Malfoy’s wand and added, “Harry, smash it!”

He didn’t hesitate, throwing the prophecy down hard. The crystal globe shattered on the ground into a thousand pieces. A ghostly image of Sybill Trelawney rose up from the fragments.

 _“The one with the power—”_ it started to say.

 _“Deletrius,”_ Hermione said, just in case someone could hear, and the image vanished.

“Hermione, come on!” Harry was well ahead of her. Without Bellatrix to keep it going, the enchanted fire was already dying out, although there were red lizards and grey snakes writhing on the floor, giving off intense heat: the fire elementals, salamanders and ashwinders. She carefully stepped over them and ran to catch up.

“What did you do?” Harry said.

“Long story. Tell you later,” she answered. She didn’t particularly want to think about the fact that she’d probably just killed someone.

Harry found the nearest door that would seem to lead back towards the entrance, but it was locked. He tried the next one. It opened onto a long hallway that seemed to be filled with miscellaneous enchanted artifacts. He ran off down the hall.

“Harry, wait!” she said. They had to stick together in case they were boxed in again.

“There they are! Stop them!”

She heard spellfire, but she couldn’t see anyone. Harry was too far ahead of her. She ran to catch up and turned the corner to see Harry duelling two Death Eaters at once. _“Reducto,”_ he yelled. “You’re too late— _Confringo! Terebradent!_ ” he said. “I’ve already— _Diffindo_ —smashed the prophecy.”

“You lie! _Incendio!_ ”

Harry shielded against a pillar of flame. Hermione, still out of breath from the sprint, tried one of her easier spells while the Death Eater was casting: _“Trigeminal Neuralgia.”_

The Brain Freeze Hex struck, and the Death Eater staggered back with a pounding headache. He ripped off his mask to rub his head, and she got a clear look at his face. It was Dolohov, the one who had murdered the Weasleys’ uncles.

_“Fractis! Fractis!”_

Most unfortunately, she was momentarily distracted from the other Death Eater, and the Bone-Breaker Curse struck her hard in the side just above her spleen. She collapsed in pain with probably two or three broken ribs and she really hoped not any internal bleeding. Harry took the other curse in the shoulder as he tried to dodge.

Dolohov and the masked Death Eater approached and loomed over them. Dolohov’s wand glowed green, pointing at Hermione, when Twin shouts of _“Stupefy!”_ rang out behind him, and he fell to the floor.

Harry and Hermione looked up to see three friendly faces for the first time all night. “George, Fred, Lee! Thank God!” Hermione gasped.

The trio rushed to them and helped them up. “We got your message,” George said.

“Good thing. I thought we were done for in here,” she said.

“They didn’t get the prophecy, though,” Harry said weakly.

“What prophecy?” asked Lee. Harry winced. He’d forgotten they didn’t know.

“Hermione, you’re hurt,” George said with alarm.

“Yeah, worry about that when people aren’t trying to kill us,” she said.

But he lifted her shirt up to inspect her ribs. She was starting to bruise there and already had one over her collarbone. “That looks _really_ bad,” he said.

“Never mind that, do we have a clear path to the exit?”

“The weird spinning room’s just there,” Lee pointed around the next corner.

“Then let’s go.” She pushed forward, leaning on George at each step. It hurt to breathe, and the pain in her shoulder was getting worse, but she pressed on. George focused on helping her towards the exit, but he still looked concerned about her condition. He pulled a sweet from his pocket and handed it to her.

“Here, eat this,” he said.

“What is it?”

“The cure for Nosebleed Nougat. It’s not much, but it’s the best we could bring on short notice. It should slow any internal bleeding until we can get you to the hospital.”

“Thank you, George,” she sighed. She ate the sweet, and her nose immediately felt painfully dry, but she hoped it would be of more use for her injuries.

“Good thing we did those tests, eh?” he said.

She nodded weakly as they stumbled out the door into the round room. But as George moved to shut the door, she stopped him. “Wait,” she said, “hold this door open so it doesn’t spin, and try the others to find the exit.”

“Got it,” said Fred. He, Lee, and Harry each tried a door while Hermione held hers open.

“Planets.”

“Ah!” _Slam!_ “Death Eaters!”

 _Slam!_ “More Death Eaters!” They could hear footsteps thudding towards them.

“We’ll take the planets,” Harry decided and dashed inside. The two other Death Eaters they had felled in here were long gone, but they knew more were coming. “Take cover,” he ordered.

“Keep moving,” Hermione said, but she wasn’t in much condition to run at this point. Instead, the five of them split off and hid behind Jupiter and Saturn.

“Do you think we can take them?” Lee whispered.

The doors banged open, and not two or four, but _eight_ Death Eaters poured into the room—including Dolohov and, Hermione noted with dismay, a now maskless Lucius Malfoy and Walden Macnair. “I don’t think so,” she said.

“Potter destroyed the prophecy!” Malfoy roared. “They’re useless to us now. Kill them all!”

Hermione readied her wand, fully expecting that they would all die in the next few minutes. They were outnumbered, overpowered, and had more injuries than the far more experienced Death Eaters. Malfoy must have gone and seen the smashed orb. Had he seen Bellatrix’s body, too? Or had she miscalculated with her spell? The dark wizards began to spread out, penning them in. The five students tensed, ready to fight or run, when they heard a shout.

“Hey!”

Lucius spun around to find the source of the noise right behind him, where Sirius pulled off Harry’s invisibility cloak.

“Get away from my godson.” He punched Lucius in the face.

Suddenly, two more doors banged open, and Remus, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Auror Shacklebolt, and Mad-Eye Moody ran into the room, wands blazing. Even Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, who didn’t look that impressive at first glance, were slinging hexes at high speeds. Taken by surprise, the Death Eaters were quickly put on the defensive.

Mrs. Weasley fought her way over to where they were hiding, looking fiercer than she ever had telling off the George and Fred, and that was saying something. Hermione remembered her saying she was a duellist back in the day. “ _Constrictor! Epoximise!_ Take that! And that!” she cried as her spells caused one of the Death Eater’s robes to shrink and squeeze him whilst sticking them to his body. “And _Scourgify!_ ” She washed his mouth out with soap, which was surprisingly effective at stopping him from casting aloud.

“And that’s why you don’t mess with Mum,” George said. For their part, the Twins and Lee were throwing a mix of spells they’d covered in the D.A. and as many of the most ridiculous prank spells as they could think of.

“Fred! George!” Mrs. Weasley scolded as she reached them. “Oh, I just _knew_ you’d be mixed up in this. What in Merlin’s name are you doing here?”

“We got Hermione’s call for help, Mum,” said George. “We couldn’t just leave her.”

“Of course you couldn’t. Are you alright?”

“Just a bit dinged up,” said Fred. “Hermione and Harry need help, though.”

“All of us will if we don’t get out of here quick. Come on, move it.”

“Mum—!” George yelled.

 _“Terebradent!”_ Hermione cast. The Tooth-Drilling Hex whizzed past Mrs. Weasley’s left ear and struck the Death Eater who was about to curse her from behind. He howled, in pain, bleeding from his mouth, as Mrs. Weasley slashed her wand and sent him flying head over heels away from her.

“Phew. Thank you, Hermione.”

She nodded: “And that’s why you don’t mess with a dentists’ daughter.”

They fought their way back towards the exit, Fred, Lee, and Harry quickly rejoining Sirius and moving with him. Despite having only one good arm, Harry was still casting fast and furious. “ _Relashio! Impedimenta!_ Boy, am I glad to see you, Sirius— _Confringo! Lumos Ardens! Myxinos!_ ”

“Just like the good old days, eh?” Sirius said with a determined grin. _“Levicorpus! Langlock!”_

“What good old days?” Harry said. “We have very different definitions— _Fulmina!_ ” Harry’s Lightning Curse made contact with Lucius Malfoy, who went sprawling on the floor.

“Nice one, James!”

“Sirius!”

“Ha! Just kidding Harry. Come on, I’ve got you.” He pulled him away from Fred. “Fred, Lee, get yourselves out of here.”

The boys started to run, but they found themselves blocked by Dolohov, who swept his arm in a complete semicircle, throwing out a nasty-looking Cutting Curse in a huge arc against the entire Weasley Family. “Well, lookie here,” he growled. “The last Prewett and the two replacements. Looks like I’ll get to complete the set.”

“ _You!_ You will _not_ touch our family again,” Mrs. Weasley hissed.

“And if you want Fred and George, you’ll have to go through me!” Lee said.

“Lee, be careful—” Mrs. Weasley started.

_“Viscera Expellite!”_

_“Gorgonion!”_ Mrs. Weasley blocked the Entrail-Expelling Curse with a shield even Hermione didn’t know, but Dolohov kept it up, casting the darkest curses she had seen all night. Mrs. Weasley took some more knocks, and each time a curse struck George’s shared shield, it felt like a slap across the face to Hermione.

 _“Cittadella!”_ Hermione switch roles threw up a powerful triple-layered shield, the strongest one she knew, that she hoped would intimidate Dolohov while letting George cast curses around it. The Weasley Matriarch was cast faster than Hermione had ever seen her move by their side, but it was still barely enough to slow Dolohov down. The room was in complete chaos by now. They had to step over an unconscious Auror Shacklebolt as Moody tried to help him up and duel at the same time. Meanwhile, Fred and Lee tried pushing around the other way with a similar shielder-spellcaster strategy.

Dolohov spun towards the pair and threw a curse that smashed through Fred’s shield, and Fred doubled over like he’d been punched the gut. Lee’s eyes widened when he saw him fall over, and his tongue slipped as he tried to switch from the Tempest Jinx he was casting to a more powerful Gouging Spell, which resulted in his wand blasting a stream of hot ash at Dolohov’s face. It sort of worked, but Dolohov deflected the spell and slashed his wand back with a shout of _“Hemorrhagia!”_ A streak of purple flame spewed out of it as Lee fumbled with his wand.

 _“Lee!”_ George yelled.

The purple curse caught Lee across the throat with no outward effect, but his body dropped like a puppet whose strings had been cut, and he began coughing up what seemed an impossible amount blood.

 _“LEE, NO!”_ Fred screamed and dove to help him, but Hermione knew enough medicine to know there was no help for what that curse seemed to have done. _“LEE! Get up!”_

Hermione’s hands were shaking as she watched. Half in a daze and half in rage, she acted without thinking, dropping her triple shield and casting a double _Bombarda_ with both wands at Dolohov’s back, but the Death Eater was already turning to face the remaining threat, and he shielded just in time.

“Mudblood bitch!” he yelled.

“Murderer!” she screamed back.

 _“Hemorrhagia!”_ he slashed his wand again.

There was no time to shield, not against a curse that powerful, but he didn’t cast it at her neck this time. He cast it lower, at her stomach, which probably saved her life. Doing the only thing she could, she twisted left and let the curse strike her right side where her basilisk-skin coat could absorbed most of the blow, though it still sent her sprawling on the floor.

 _“HERMIONE!”_ George screamed.

She felt like she’d been whacked with a cricket bat. Hard. But it was superficial. It hadn’t destroyed her stomach or her reproductive organs like he’d surely intended. Rage coursed through her. She had to stop that monster. She coughed once, sucked in as much air as she could, and pushed herself up on one arm to hurl out the darkest curse in her repertoire.

_“Epidermolysis Bullosa!”_

Her curse struck true, and Dolohov reeled back and collapsed with a grimace of pain.

Hermione was suddenly aware of George helping her to her feet and seemingly checking to make sure she was still alive. Then of Mrs. Weasley shouting as she tried to fend off the other Death Eaters. Then of Fred crying as he sat on the floor, clutching Lee’s body against his chest. “Lee! No, please! Come on, say something! Anything!”

Mr. Weasley wrapped his arms around Fred from behind and pulled him away. Mrs. Weasley did the same for George. “Fred, we have to go,” his father said.

“No! No! We can save him!”

“ _Fred!_ It’s too late. He’s gone.”

 _It can_ _’t be_ , Hermione thought. How could it be possible that Lee Jordan was dead? He hadn’t even had a ring! He wasn’t even supposed to be there! And now he was dead, protecting his best friend, who had only there to protect her.

But she couldn’t stop. The fighting was still ranging. Two of the Death Eaters were blocking the doors, and nothing could seem to budge them. Everyone who could still cast hammered away at them and the other Death Eaters with hexes whilst dodging dark spells and even Killing Curses. Remus went down with a broken leg, and Moody pulled him back, but he kept casting from the ground. One of the masked Death Eaters was tied up and Stunned twice so he couldn’t get back up so quickly. They seemed stalemated, and it was only a matter of time before someone else got unlucky. But then, one more fighter arrived and tipped the balance.

“Dumbledore!” someone yelled as the fugitive Headmaster ran into the room, his wand glowing a brilliant white. And just like that, the Death Eaters who could still move scattered—only five minutes too late for Lee. Macnair picked up Dolohov and managed to make the door with the others.

“Hurry!” Dumbledore ordered. “The danger is not over.”

“They’re getting away,” Moody growled.

“Stun them if you can. Our priority is Harry and the other victims,” he said. “Now.” He led them out of the planets room and into the round room, but this time, before it started spinning, he called out, “Exit,” and a door popped open leading back to the long corridor. The Death Eaters were there, running for the lifts.

The Order threw Tripping Jinxes, Incarcerous Spells, and anything else they could think of to keep them from escaping—or fighting back. Macnair ran to the front and managed to slip out with Dolohov, but with Dumbledore on their side, the other five were brought down, tied up, and disarmed before they reached the lifts.

The Order hurried to the lifts themselves, but rather than pressing the button, Dumbledore waved his wand, and three empty lifts slammed down to their floor at high speeds. “Quickly, we must alert the Aurors,” he said. The eleven of them piled into them, Fred and Mr. Weasley carrying Lee’s body, and they rose to the Atrium, again far faster than normal. Now, they only had to reach the Floos, but then, an even more terrifying sight blocked their path.

Voldemort.

Hermione had never seen the fully-regenerated Voldemort in the flesh, but there was no doubting it was him. He was uncannily tall with pale, scaly skin, slits for nostrils, and glowing red eyes, and he wore robes so dark they seemed to be cut from the night itself.

“You should not have come here, Tom,” Dumbledore said calmly.

“Potter forced my hand,” Voldemort sneered. “According to my followers, he smashed the prophecy.”

Dumbledore glanced at Harry. “Then he showed more wisdom than you.”

“You told him what it said, didn’t you, old man? That’s why you threw it away so easily, isn’t it, Potter?”

Dumbledore said nothing.

“I should have anticipated that, but no matter. If I can’t get the orb, I’ll drag it out of you instead—but not before I kill the meddling fool. _Avada Kedavra!_ ”

Hermione had seen the Killing Curse for the first time only a few hours earlier when Stan Shunpike had cast it at her and Harry, but she’d been too shocked to really register the horror of it until now. It was ten times worse coming from Voldemort. It was impossible to see that jet of green light streaming towards you across the Atrium like a missile and not instinctively _know_ it meant instant death.

Dumbledore, however, merely summoned the security desk into the path of the curse as casually as if he were batting away a fly. The desk exploded in midair, scattering pieces across the floor. He fired a curse of his own back. Hermione didn’t know what it did, but it was so powerful it made her hair stand on end, and Voldemort conjured a physical shield to stop it. He advanced on Dumbledore, and Dumbledore did the same, moving farther ahead of the group.

“Shouldn’t we help?” Hermione said.

Voldemort threw a lightning curse that was far more powerful than Hermione’s—so powerful that when Dumbledore deflected it, it blasted chunks off the stone walls. Hermione found herself dragged behind a column to take cover.

“With the magic they’re using out there?” George said. “We’ll be mincemeat. We’ll only slow Dumbledore down.”

“Apparate out!” Mr. Weasley ordered from his cover. But he turned on the spot and promptly fell flat on his face.

“Strike that!” Moody said. “Bastard made an Anti-Apparition Ward.”

Peeking out, she saw Dumbledore cast a spell that pulled the water out of the Fountain in the middle of the Atrium and poured it over Voldemort, deflecting the lightning harmlessly into the ground. He then molded the water into a cocoon around Voldemort as if to drown him. But an angry red light grew in the centre of the sphere, brighter and brighter, until it exploded into a column of steam. Out of the billowing steam came an enormous serpent made of fire—as large as the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets, which loomed over Dumbledore to strike him down. Dumbledore produced a flaming whip from his own wand and lashed it at the snake, striking it once, twice, three times, before he blasted it back hard enough that it exploded and blew jets of flame all over the Atrium. George pulled Hermione back behind the pillar just before one of the jets scorched them.

Voldemort then screamed and waved his wand in a wide arc above his head. There was a tremendous crash and all the hundreds and thousands of windows in the Atrium, towering seven stories above them, shattered in an instant and were hurled at Dumbledore in a storm of razor-sharp shards of glass.

Hermione was awestruck. Just how powerful _was_ Voldemort? How could she ever hope to compete with magic like that? Or Harry, for that matter—the child of the prophecy? And now, Dumbledore threw up a shield that didn’t block the glass, but ground it down into sand, raising his arm to protect his face from being sandblasted. He then directed the sand back at his foe, trying to entomb him in it as he had before with the water, but Voldemort was ready this time. He Apparated out of the way of the stream through his own ward, again and again, faster than Dumbledore could manoeuvre it. He tried to Apparate behind him to get to Harry, but a barrier shimmered across the width of the Atrium—one that Hermione hadn’t even seen Dumbledore set up—and he bounced back through some non-space to Apparate back into the fountain.

With a wave of his wand, Dumbledore animated the five golden statutes in the fountain to attack Voldemort, but Voldemort cast _something_ that crushed all five presumably hollow statues into small balls and banished them at the Headmaster. Dumbledore deflected these again, and they flew to the corners of the Atrium, crashing hard enough to leave craters in the floor.

Voldemort sent one Killing Curse after another at Dumbledore, which he blocked with pieces of debris. Hermione felt like she was under cannon fire, even hidden behind the pillar. Dumbledore threw a blast of wind and created what seemed to be a full-sized tornado in the middle of the Atrium. The debris swirled around and towards Voldemort, but Voldemort, showing more understanding of the weather phenomena than Hermione thought he possessed, froze the water on the floor, flooding the Atrium with cold and choking off the updraught.

He then made the ice lift up, filled with sand and debris, and form into tall golems around Dumbledore, which attacked him. Dumbledore tried to shatter them, but his spell was less effective than it should have been. They only partially shattered, and they reformed their damaged parts. He cast his fire whip again and lashed them to pieces. The whip grew into a firestorm as large as Voldemort’s fire serpent and burned away the ice. Then, it turned into what looked like a beam of focused sunlight that could melt through solid steel, but Voldemort raised his silver shield and reflected it into the ceiling, slowly tipping it back down at Dumbledore, who was forced to cut it off.

Suddenly, the Floos roared to life. It was still too early even for the maintenance shift, so it had to mean more reinforcements, but for which side?

As figures in brown trench coats began emerging, Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. It was Tonks, Hestia Jones, Amelia Bones, and nearly a dozen other Aurors rushing into the Ministry, answering the summons. Someone must have finally got the message through. They took one look at the scene and immediately ran for the nearest cover whilst casting curses at Voldemort’s back. He stopped casting curses to focus on shielding. Even he had to think twice about fighting whilst surrounded by a dozen trained fighters.

In all the commotion, Hermione almost missed the sound of one more Floo opening and three figures stepping out. “And what is so important that you had to drag me out of bed at five in the morning, Amos?” Cornelius Fudge. “We both know your boy’s gone barmy. You’ll be lucky if I don’t fire you for—”

Fudge stopped dead. He locked eyes with Voldemort.

Voldemort surveyed the scene and cut his losses. With a wave of his wand, there was a great crash, and Dumbledore’s Apparition barrier shattered, and before Dumbledore could set it back up, Voldemort Apparated away.

“He’s back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zwinger: German word describing part of a castle with a double wall.
> 
> Frasso: Based on the Greek for “block”.
> 
> Dridristaub: Stylised from the German for “three times three dust”, referencing the method of fractal construction.
> 
> Non Perturbare: Latin for “Do not disturb.”
> 
> Commotio Cordis: Latin term for the medical condition meaning “agitation of the heart”.
> 
> Trigeminal Neuralgia: Latin term for the medical condition meaning “pain in the trigeminal nerve”.
> 
> Fractis: stylised from the English “fracture”.
> 
> Constrictor: from the vocabulary word for the snake.
> 
> Viscera Expellite: stylised from the Latin for “expel organs”.
> 
> Gorgoneion: an alternate Greek name for the shield of Athena.
> 
> Cittadella: Italian for “citadel”.
> 
> Hemorrhagia: Greek term for the medical condition meaning “blood burst”.
> 
> Epidermolysis Bullosa: Greco-Latin term for the medical condition meaning “loosening of skin with blisters”. DO NOT Google this one. I mean it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.


	33. Chapter 33

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Newt Scamander is owned by JK Rowling (and so are the people who are actually in this chapter).
> 
> Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them is awesome. It’s better than all of the Harry Potter films except Prisoner of Azkaban and Deathly Hallows Part 2. Go see it!

Fudge blustered and tried to save face, but with a dozen Aurors and the director of the DMLE having not just witnessed, but participated in the fight against Voldemort, there was no denying what he had seen. Mr. Diggory aggressively demanding he apologise for calling Cedric mad was icing on the cake. Dumbledore was out of breath, and his robes were singed, something Hermione didn’t think she’d ever seen with him before, but he got to work at once, making a Portkey to take the wounded students to the Hogwarts Infirmary (even though none of them were Hogwarts students anymore), which he said was safer than St. Mungo’s, mainly for Harry, she suspected. Hermione asked what about Umbridge, but he assured her that everything would be fine with a twinkle in his eye and sent them off.

Hermione, Harry, Fred, and George hit the floor of the Infirmary and collapsed in a heap. The low light from the torches rose, and Madam Pomfrey ran into the room, alerted by the alarm.

“Mr. Potter, Miss Granger!” she exclaimed. “And Weasleys! What happened? Professor Vector said you were captured.”

“Voldemort,” Harry said shakily.

“Mostly Dolohov, actually,” Hermione said absently. “If it were Voldemort, we’d be in pieces.”

“Oh dear, you’re in shock,” Madam Pomfrey diagnosed. “Come on, lie down.”

“Lee’s dead,” George said hoarsely.

“What?”

“Dolohov killed him.”

“Not Lee Jordan?” Pomfrey said in horror.

George nodded sadly. Fred seemed unable to speak. Hermione couldn’t imagine what they were feeling right now. Lee was almost as close with the Twins as they were with each other. She lay back on the bed, only half aware of her surroundings until Madam Pomfrey came over and waved her wand over her. “Tsk tsk,” she said. “Broken clavicle, two broken ribs, one cracked, ruptured spleen, extensive bruising down the right side, dark magic residue, mild exhaustion…Have you taken any potions, Miss Granger?”

“Er…a cure for Nosebleed Nougat.”

“Ah, yes, that. Good thinking there, but what happened to your side?”

“Some kind of curse,” she said. “Dolohov cast it. I don’t know what it was, but it was purple, and it was the same one that killed Lee.”

“Sweet Merlin!” Pomfrey gasped. “You’re lucky to be alive!”

“You know it?”

“Of course I know it. The Hemorrhaging Curse. It’s Dolohov’s speciality. Lord knows I saw it enough last time. It can kill if it hits a vulnerable spot like the head or neck. Otherwise, it’s survivable if you get to a hospital fast enough, but how did you not have your liver torn apart by it?”

“Basilisk-skin coat, ma’am. It absorbed most of it…Lee wasn’t so lucky.”

“I’m very sorry for your loss, Miss Granger,” she said. “The good news is it was diluted enough that you should be back on your feet in a few days.” She mended her broken bones and considered for a moment. “Yes, I think that will do it,” she said to herself. She left briefly and returned with four potions. One was for the pain, she said, one was to repair her spleen, one for the curse damage, and the fourth was a Sleeping Draught. “You have quite enough damage to be getting on with, but those should have you healing up quite nicely. And I _think_ you’ll get away without any scarring.”

Hermione shrugged, not particularly caring at the moment. As she drifted off to sleep, she muttered, “You should see the other guy.”

* * *

When Hermione woke, it was to the murmuring of voices and sunlight streaming in through the windows. She felt groggy, and she guessed that potion or no, she had only been asleep for a few hours. The pain was much better, though. She felt something brush her hand, and she looked over to see George fast asleep in a chair by her bedside, his flopped on the sheets where he must have been holding her hand. Even in sleep, his eyes were red from exhaustion, and tears if she didn’t miss her guess. She reached over and squeezed his hand, causing him to wake up.

“Hey there, beautiful. You’re up,” he said with a weak smile.

“Yeah…” she said. “Thank you for saving us.”

“I’ll always come to save you, Hermione. And Harry’s practically our brother, so we couldn’t leave him either.”

She half-smiled, but it vanished quickly. “George, I’m so sorry about Lee—,” she started.

“It’s not your fault,” he said. “He made his choice. We all did. I wasn’t going to leave you behind, and neither was he.”

“But he wasn’t in the Order. He didn’t even know about the Order.”

“We might’ve told him a more than we let on to the rest of you. And he was in the D.A., anyway. He was prepared to fight.”

“Still…” She looked down at her hands. “I wasn’t expecting to do any real fighting…I mean, I was preparing for it, but…I don’t think I was ready.”

“I don’t think anyone is when the time comes,” George said softly. “Hell, do you think Mum and Dad were ready tonight? Dad probably had to stun Mum to get her to calm down. We just have to keep doing the right thing like Dumbledore says.”

Hermione refrained from saying what she thought of Dumbledore. She knew it (probably) wasn’t his fault that he came too late. She had no idea where he had been hiding out, and he had probably gone to check on the prophecy first, but she still had significant disagreements with him from the past year. “How are you and Fred doing?” she asked.

George sighed and blinked back tears. “I don’t know…” he said. “I just…can’t believe he’s gone. I’m scared for what’s gonna happen next…And part of me just wants to be selfish and be happy I didn’t lose you or Fred. I mean, I really thought my life was over when I saw you get hit, and I can’t even think about losing Fred.”

“I know. I don’t know what I’d do without you or Harry…” She shook her head. The war was getting too personal too fast. “How’s Harry?” she changed the subject.

“Still sleeping, but Madam Pomfrey says he’ll be fine. Ron and Ginny were in here for a little while. I didn’t know they were awake, but I guess things were pretty crazy here last night?”

Hermione nodded: “The Aurors tried to arrest Hagrid, and they nearly killed Professor McGonagall.”

“What? McGonagall? How? Why?”

“She tried to get them away from Hagrid. They hit her with a bunch of Stunners, which I guess they weren’t supposed to do…Also, Hagrid’s been hiding a giant in the Forest.”

“A giant? Bloody hell. You miss a little at Hogwarts, and you miss a lot. Do you know what happened to Luna?”

“Luna?”

“Good morning, Hermione. I’m glad to see you’re still alive.” Luna was sitting in a hospital bed across from her. She looked around and spotted Harry sleeping and Fred sitting in the corner, looking almost catatonic.

“Luna, what happened to you?” she said.

“I’m afraid Dolores Umbridge used the Cruciatus Curse on me.”

“She didn’t!” Hermione gasped. “That’s illegal!”

“I think the D.A. pushed her too far. She’s normally much more careful than that.”

“My God. Are you alright, Luna?”

“Oh, yes. I wasn’t under it very long. Neville saved me very quickly, but Madam Pomfrey wanted me to stay here overnight.”

“Neville? Okay, now I think _I_ _’ve_ missed a lot.”

“Hello?” they heard Harry call. “Wazgoinon?”

“Harry? You’re awake?”

“Uh huh.” He pushed himself up in the bed. “What’s happening? Is everyone alright?”

“Depends what you mean by ‘alright’,” she replied. “But I don’t think anything’s changed from last night.”

“Remus was hurt, though.”

“It didn’t look too bad. I can try to call someone with my ring—” She reached for her wand, but she quickly realised that her robes had been switched for a hospital gown, and her wands were nowhere to be found. She checked her garter. It was gone, with her holdout wand. “George, where are my wands?”

“I…”

“George, where are my wands?” she said urgently.

“I—I don’t know. I think Madam Pomfrey took them.”

“Madam Pomfrey?” she called loudly. She was starting to feel nervous in spite of her better reason.

Madam Pomfrey hurried back into the room. “I see you two are up,” she said. “How are you feeling?”

“Much better, ma’am—physically, I mean,” Hermione said. “But could I get my wands back, please?”

“Wands? Plural?” she said sceptically.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“So there’s a reason you came in here with four wands on your person?”

“Four? Oh, right, the homemade one. Er…the two with the spiral designs and the plain one are mine. I never carry just one anymore. The one that looks like it was chewed by an animal is Walden Macnair’s, I think.”

“Macnair? I’m sure there’s a _very_ entertaining story there,” Pomfrey said sarcastically, “and Mr. Potter, you had an extra wand on your person that was a good eighteen inches long. Dare I ask where you found _that?_ ”

“Compensating for something, Harry?” George said.

Harry glared at him, but then he smiled: “Not me. That was Lucius Malfoy’s.”

George laughed weakly, and Madam Pomfrey rubbed her forehead in frustration.

“I’d really feel safer if I had my wands back, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione pressed.

“Very well,” she sighed, “but don’t cast any taxing magic for a few days. You need your rest.” She retrieved her and Harry’s wands and gave them back to them. “Now, I’ll have to let some visitors in before I get overrun, but I expect you to go back to sleep right after breakfast.”

“Er, yes, ma’am,” Hermione said sheepishly.

Madam Pomfrey opened the doors with a stern warning to the people standing outside about limited visiting hours, and Ron, Ginny, and Neville rushed into the room.

“Harry!” Ginny exclaimed. She ran to his side and kissed him. “Thank God!”

“Hey, Ginny,” he said.

“I was so worried when Professor Vector told us you were taken. What happened?”

“Yeah, good question,” Ron said, approaching George and Hermione. “We heard about Lee. I can’t believe it.”

“It was Dolohov,” George growled. “The one that got Uncle Fabian and Uncle Gideon. He’s got it in for the whole family.”

“Bloody hell. Hermione, what happened down there?”

“Let’s hear yours first,” she said. “I’m guessing it’s shorter.”

Ron and Ginny blushed. “Oh,” said Ginny, “well, Professor Vector told Ron, Dean, and Neville you were in trouble, and she needed to get word to the Aurors. So they assembled everyone who was awake from the D.A., and we got together and attacked Umbridge to get her out of the way.”

“You all did that for us?” Hermione asked with wide eyes. “Wait a minute, why did you have to attack Umbridge. Why not just sneak Septima out of the castle.”

Ginny blushed harder: “Erm…I kind of overreacted. I was mad at her for making you two go home alone, and…yeah. So Umbridge fought back, but she couldn’t fight all of us, and she lost it and…and she cast the Cruciatus blindly and hit Luna,” she said sadly. “I about wanted to kill her, but Neville got to her first and blasted her halfway across the Great Hall with one spell.”

Hermione looked in amazement at Neville, who was sitting by Luna’s bedside. Who knew he had _that_ in him? He nodded solemnly when he saw her eyes on him. “I…I think I might’ve killed her,” he said. “Professor Vector took her to St. Mungo’s and all, but she wasn’t moving…and then I found out I’d burnt out my wand…It was my dad’s wand. Gran’s gonna kill me,” he muttered.

Burnt out his wand? From what Hermione knew, that could only happen if his wand had been working under a lot of strain for years. Maybe if was a poor fit for him? She searched for something to say to make him feel better. “Oh…well, I think I killed Bellatrix,” she said.

Neville choked and stared at her in shock, as did most of the other occupants in the room, but then another voice said, “In fact, you did not.” They turned in surprise as Albus Dumbledore entered the Infirmary. “Neither of you, I mean. For better or worse, my various sources tell me that both Dolores Umbridge and Bellatrix Lestrange are very much alive.”

“She is?” Hermione said. “But how? My curse should have killed her.”

Dumbledore’s face fell disapprovingly. “I do not know the details, but I have it from a reliable source—” This of course meant Professor Snape. “—that Augustus Rookwood was able to reverse the spell.”

“That’s not exactly what I meant, Professor. I used a Heart-Stopping Curse. Rookwood knows how to fix ventricular fibrillation?”

Dumbledore’s gaze darkened further. “Hermione, I do not believe this is the proper time or place to discuss this,” he said. “Suffice it to say that as an Unspeakable, Rookwood knows many things most wizards don’t.”

“Oh. Sorry, Professor,” she muttered.

She then noticed George was staring at her worriedly. “ _Heart-Stopping_ Curse?” he asked.

“Yes, I got the idea from one of my parents’ medical textbooks,” she said. “You see, the way the heart functions—”

“Miss Granger,” Dumbledore cut her off.

“Never mind.” She blushed as she realised it was probably best not to explain how the spell worked.

“I apologise for breaking up this discussion,” he continued, “but there are some aspects to last night’s events that I feel should be handled privately before they are spread about. I will of course wait for you to recover further before fully ‘debriefing’ you, as they say. For now, I merely wished to report to you the current situation.”

“I’m guessing you’re back as Headmaster,” Hermione said.

“Indeed. Dolores Umbridge has been arrested for use of an Unforgivable Curse, and Minister Fudge no longer has the power to protect her. She will be going to Azkaban, and Educational Decrees Numbers Twenty-One through Thirty-Two will be repealed by evening. I have also taken the liberty of reinstating Professors Trelawney and Hagrid. Harry, both your expulsion and your lifetime ban from Quidditch have been revoked. And you will of course both be permitted to make up your Muggle Studies and History of Magic examinations that were scheduled for today.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she replied, thought she didn’t much care at this point.

“Now, Mr. Jordan’s body has been taken to his family,” he continued. “I deeply regret that I could not do more to save him. But I am pleased to report that all of our other people will make a full recovery. As for the Death Eaters, since I am sure you are wondering, they all survived, although I cannot speak to their current conditions. Six were arrested at the scene, while six others escaped.”

“Bellatrix?”

“I’m afraid so, along with Rookwood. It was those who were incapacitated who left the battle before the Aurors could apprehend them. But despite everything that happened, I do want to commend you—all of you. You kept the ‘weapon’ out of Voldemort’s hands, and you also rescued Harry and Hermione, as well as revealing Voldemort’s return to the Ministry. It may be hard to accept, but last night was more of a victory than a defeat.”

It certainly didn’t feel like a victory, even though she could see his reasoning. “Sir, could you tell my parents I’m alright—actually, never mind, I’ll have Dobby do that…But could you ask Professor Slughorn to come up to the castle and talk to me as soon as he can? I still need to talk to him about…that special project you mentioned.”

“Of course, Hermione, if you think this would be an opportune time and you are up to it. For now, I will leave you to your breakfast. I will call on you again when you are more rested. Ta-ta, all of you.”

After Dumbledore left, Hermione and Harry gave the others an overview of their story. Neville and Ginny in particular were awestruck at Hermione’s skills. Ginny asked if she could teach her some of the spells she described (albeit in vague terms), to which Hermione cautiously agreed. Over breakfast, Hermione called Dobby and asked him to report back to her parents that she was okay, that some bad things had happened that she would have to explain later because she’d been up all night and needed to sleep, but the danger had passed, and she might or might not be staying at Hogwarts for the next week until term ended.

Her parents’ response, delivered through Dobby, who did a frighteningly good impression of her mother, was, “You have a _lot_ of explaining to do, young lady. You were supposed to stay out of danger this year. And you can’t just leave us with ‘some bad things happened’. You’d better come home right away to discuss this, or else.”

Her reply to _that_ she decided to put in a note so that she could suppress her more annoyed reactions, although she wasn’t sure it worked:

 

_Dear Mum and Dad,_

_I apologise for frightening you, but_ _“some bad things happened” is a pretty apt description. Yes, Harry and I found ourselves in danger last night, but it wasn’t from us being irresponsible. It was the Ministry screwing things up so badly that there was no one else responsible around to help us. The good news is that the Ministry just got its head pulled out of its collective arse, Dumbledore’s back, etc., etc., so it won’t happen again. The bad news is that one of my friends died last night—Lee Jordan—I don’t know if you ever met him, but he was George’s and Fred’s best friend, and he helped save me and Harry. If it makes you feel better, you should know that I gave better than I got last night. I really do need to sleep, so I’ll write you later to explain more._

_Love from,_

_Hermione_

_P.S. Please see Madam Pomfrey_ _’s note that I should stay here till the end of term for treatment. No, my injuries weren’t that bad, but I got hit with a spell that that needs magic to fully fix._

_P.P.S. Also, I still have to take my make-up exams._

 

Yeah, that kind of got away from her. Either way, it was easy to convince Madam Pomfrey to write the note.

When asked, Dobby also admitted that he couldn’t hear her when she called for him in the Department of Mysteries. He was distraught by the thought that he’d failed her and even tried to punish himself, but she stopped him and assured him it wasn’t his fault. That seemed to settle things for the moment. Most of her friends had left by then, leaving only Neville behind.

“Hermione…” he said, “I just wanted to say thanks—you know, for trying to get Bellatrix.”

“Thanks, Neville,” she answered. “I did my best. I just wish Voldemort didn’t have someone as smart as Rookwood with him.”

“Yeah, me too.”

* * *

After breakfast, Hermione slept again until mid-afternoon, at which time Madam Pomfrey reluctantly got her and Harry out of bed. “If I had my way, you’d be here till tomorrow morning,” she grumbled, “but the Headmaster _insisted_ that you had critical work to do that couldn’t wait because the end of term is so close. He wants to see _you_ now, Miss Granger, and Mr. Potter to join you in a half hour. But I want to see both of you back here twice a day for continued treatment, you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Hermione said.

She walked up to the Headmaster’s Office. Her legs were fine, but still felt achy all around her chest and down her right side. The bruises, caused by dark magic, would take time to heal. She managed the walk with little trouble, though. When she reached the office, she was surprised to find Septima and Professor Snape had joined them. An odd combination, to be sure, but she was mainly excited to see her favourite teacher again.

“Septima!” she said, rushing to hug her.

“Hermione! Thank Merlin you’re alright,” Septima said, hugging her back. “I was so worried when I saw your message. I did what I could, but I was afraid it was too late.”

“I had other help, but thank you,” she said.

Snape cleared his throat: “If you are done with this sentimental display?”

“Really, Severus!” Septima said. “Hermione’s been through a traumatic experience.”

“She is far from the only one, Septima, and we have more important things to discuss.”

“Then by all means,” she said coldly. “Headmaster?”

“Quite.” Dumbledore fixed his eyes on Hermione, and she automatically began practising Occlumency in case he tried to get into her head. “Hermione,” he said, “I asked you here because I have heard Professor Snape’s report of what the returning Death Eaters told Voldemort last night, and I confess I am concerned by the dark nature of the spells you employed against them. I understand your situation was dire, but some of the things he has told me were, frankly, disturbing. That is why I wanted to discuss the matter with you right way. I asked Professor Vector to come as well, since I believe several of these were spells you crafted yourself.”

Hermione looked at Septima questioningly. “I don’t know the details,” she said, “only that the Headmaster is concerned about it. What did you do?”

Hermione eyed Snape warily. Everyone said he was on their side, but he _was_ a double agent. She didn’t think it would be wise to trust him completely. “Perhaps you should explain what happened to the Death Eaters, Professor,” she said. “I didn’t exactly stay to watch the aftermath.”

Snape inclined his head appraisingly. “Bellatrix Lestrange apparently suffered heart failure from your curse, but is now more or less recovered due to Rookwood’s intervention. Avery suffered severe lacerations from the trap that you set, and two others suffered minor injuries. Mulciber looks as if he was shot by a muggle shotgun, and I would like to know what the _hell_ you did to Dolohov.”

“Ah. I’m guessing he’s not having a very good day?” she ventured.

“The man looks like he’s been skinned alive, Granger! He was howling like you’d set him on fire, and the Dark Lord was _not_ happy that I didn’t know how to heal him.”

“Well, don’t expect me to tell you, Professor. I’m not going to give _him_ any help.”

“Hermione,” Dumbledore said, “perhaps you could explain your choice of spells last night.”

“Hermione…did you _really_ do all that?” Septima asked with concern.

“Yes, Septima, I did,” she replied. “If you must know, Headmaster, I set traps involving high-test cutting wires at several locations in the Department of Mysteries to slow down our pursuers, which is what Avery stumbled into. I used a fractal Piercing Hex on Mulciber. I used a Heart-Stopping Curse of Bellatrix, and I used an extremely powerful Blistering Curse on Dolohov. However, I’m not comfortable discussing it in any more detail in front of Professor Snape, sir, and now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m not particularly inclined to give you the details either.”

“Heart-Stopping Curse?” Septima asked, looking a little frightened of her.

“Is _that_ really what everyone’s worried about?”

Dumbledore sighed: “Hermione, I had hoped you would understand that such a dark curse is not an appropriate tool for someone who opposes Voldemort and his ways. Such a spell is but a shade away from the Killing Curse—”

“Actually, it’s not, sir.”

Dumbledore looked surprised, but Snape sneered: “Really? A spell that passes through a magical shield and stops the heart in one blow _isn_ _’t_ dark, Granger?”

“I based it on the Sumerian Strike Hex, Professor,” she said defiantly. “The core is dead simple. I added a few dark elements, yes, but no more than are in the Bludgeoning Curses you yourselves were throwing around. It certainly doesn’t take any malicious intent to cast, just good aim.”

“But…how?” Dumbledore said in disbelief.

“The human body has its weak points, Headmaster. My parents are medical professionals, so I know them better than most.” On impulse, she fixed her eyes on him. “I’m sorry if such methods don’t meet your approval, Professor. I can’t hope to control rivers of fire and storms of glass like you and Voldemort. I need to use more _efficient_ tactics.”

By now, Septima was looking at her like she almost didn’t recognise her anymore, but Snape…did Snape actually look _impressed?_ Dumbledore wasn’t swayed though: “That was not the issue I was talking about, Hermione. Using such lethal magic is a dark path to start down, especially for one so young. Murder does terrible things to the soul.”

“Murder? Excuse me, sir?” she said incredulously. “That wasn’t murder. That was self-defence. They tried to kill me first, and I responded as necessary to protect my life.”

“A standard that has long been used in court without issue,” Snape pointed out.

Hermione raised her eyebrows at him. Snape was _defending_ her? Well, she supposed he’d never been too unpleasant towards her when Harry wasn’t around, but still…Dumbledore, however, shot Snape a disapproving look and said, “But was it really necessary, Hermione? Is it not incumbent upon us to be better than the Death Eaters?”

“We _are_ better, Headmaster,” she insisted. “We don’t torture. We don’t discriminate. We don’t throw racial slurs or curses that can only be cast with malice. I know I’m not perfect, sir, but I don’t pull punches with self-defence. You meet lethal force with lethal force.”

Dumbledore sighed again. “You are still very young, Hermione—”

“With all due respect, sir, this isn’t just my opinion. This is standard practise in the muggle world. Muggles don’t carry lethal weapons in this country as a rule, but when they do, they’re taught that when someone threatens your life, you shoot for the heart—not with the _goal_ of killing, but with the goal of stopping the threat as quickly as possible with the least risk of collateral damage.” Something she’d been specifically researching over the last few months. “With magic, that sometimes means powerful curses that can smash through shields and drop an enemy quickly.

“And for what it’s worth, the trap that Avery was caught in was non-lethal. I’d done the calculations, and if he was a competent wizard and could stop the bleeding, which he seems to have been, I knew it wouldn’t kill him. As for Mulciber and Bellatrix, that was pure self-defence, but…I admit I lost my temper with Dolohov. I used a much darker curse than I needed to bring him down, and yes, I have to deal with that. But it was no more than he deserved. He’d already killed Lee, and he nearly got me too, so I don’t regret using potentially lethal spells in return.”

All three teachers were staring at her by the time she finished her speech. Snape was the first to speak: “Well, Albus, if Miss Granger continues to influence Potter as she has been, we might actually have a chance. She is right about muggle firearms, by the way, and it _is_ the same standard our own Aurors use, when it comes down to it.”

Dumbledore looked between the two of them with a defeated expression. “You are correct Severus,” he said. “But it still pains me to see a student driven to such extremes. And Hermione, I must still urge you to exercise _extreme_ caution with any form of dark magic. Even if you measured your response in this instance, its corrupting influence is not to be trifled with.”

“I’m well aware of that, sir, but thank you nonetheless.”

He nodded. “Now, I believe young Harry will be here soon. Severus, Septima, could I ask you to leave at this time?”

Snape nodded and stood up to leave in silence.

“Thank you, Professor Snape,” Hermione said quickly.

He inclined his head again. “Don’t mention it,” he said, and it was clear he meant it literally.

“And Septima, I didn’t mean to scare you,” Hermione said. “Can we still talk later?”

“Of course, Hermione.”

The pair left, and Harry arrived a few minutes later. He looked at Hermione questioningly and quietly asked what she had been doing.

“Ethics debate,” she whispered. “Nothing to worry about.”

“Thank you for coming on such short notice, Harry,” Dumbledore began. “I was intending to give you a day to recover, but some matters came up that I thought needed to be addressed immediately, so I will try to keep this short. I would like to get the full story about what happened last night. There is a good chance Amelia Bones will ask you to repeat this story in the coming days, but for our own purposes, I think it is important to set the record straight now, if you are comfortable talking about it.”

Hermione and Harry couldn’t exactly say they were comfortable, but they told the story anyway. “So we got on the Knight Bus last night, but it didn’t take us home,” Harry started.

“Well, actually, I think it kind of started when the Aurors came for Hagrid,” Hermione corrected.

“Yeah, I guess. We were were taking our Astronomy O.W.L., and we saw Umbridge and some Aurors going to Hagrid’s hut…” he started again. They told the story as best they remembered it. Dumbledore filled in a few points that they didn’t understand as they went. The giant, he said, was Hagrid’s half-brother, Grawp, who had been exiled from his tribe because he was so small. ( _“Small?”_ Hermione said.) He recounted the confrontation at Hogwarts to them from the other teachers’ report and told them that afterwards, Septima had taken Umbridge to St. Mungo’s and reported both her actions and Hermione’s and Harry’s kidnapping to the Aurors.

“Nymphadora Tonks sends her sincere apologies for not arriving sooner,” he told them. “When Septima told her that Sirius and Remus had those most useful rings of yours, she knew the Order would be on its way, so she thought it more important to gather a strong team of Aurors to respond. Naturally, it took some time to convince them.

“It might also interest you to know, Harry, that when Dolores Umbridge was questioned this morning, it emerged that she was the one who sent the dementors to attack you last August.”

“She did _what?!_ ” Hermione yelled.

“Yes, I know you have a particular aversion to those creatures, Hermione, but it is sadly true,” he said. “It would seem that her dedication to the law was not quite as pure as she presented it, and she wanted to ‘make the problem go away’. In that context, then, perhaps her ill-advised use of the Cruciatus Curse last night makes a bit more sense.”

Hermione muttered something very uncouth under her breath. She wished she’d cursed that vile woman into oblivion when she had the chance.

The pair then explained how the staff on the Knight Bus had been Imperiused and forced them off at the Ministry, where Malfoy and Macnair were waiting for them. Hermione was deliberately vague about how she had produced knockout gas whilst bound and gagged and may have implied that it was one of the Twins’ prank items. They described running through the Department of Mysteries, setting traps, and the battle itself in as much detail as they could remember up until the point Dumbledore arrived.

“And I guess you know the rest, Professor,” Harry said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “That fills in a few important gaps in my own investigation. I shall have to inform Madam Bones to better secure the Knight Bus. And I apologise again for not arriving sooner. I came as quickly as I could, but I had to visit the Hall of Prophecy first.”

“I…I understand, sir,” Harry said.

“Yes, Professor,” Hermione admitted.

“And I want to commend you for your performance, both of you. Even though we may disagree about our methods, it is clear that your self-study has paid dividends.”

“Thank you, sir,” Harry said.

“Professor,” Hermione cut in with what she’d been wanting to say for a while. “Before we go, I have to ask… _Why_ does the Department of Mysteries have brains in a vat?”

Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. “An interesting question, Hermione. Of the many secrets hidden in the Department of Mysteries, that is the one you wish to know about?”

“Sir, the Brain in a Vat is one of the classic philosophical conundrums in the muggle world. I’m having a bit of an existential crisis, here.”

“Ah. I see,” he said. He knew how she was about existential crises. “If you promise not to divulge it, I can tell you.”

She agreed at once and elbowed Harry to do the same.

“The ‘brains’, as you call them, are not brains,” Dumbledore said. “The Unspeakables do study the brain, the mind, and the soul, but they do not do so in that room. The Aquavirius Maggots were, in fact, the Unspeakables’ ill-fated attempt to restore ghosts to mortal life—an experiment gone badly wrong. That is why they are housed next door to the Chamber of Death. They are trapped in a form not quite alive, but not quite dead—appearing as brains, but extruding not nerves, but tentacles of pure thought, if you were to look closely. Thus, you need not fear a Cartesian demon ‘most highly powerful and cunning’ manipulating the perceptions of disembodied brains imprisoned beneath London.”

Hermione shivered. His answer was philosophically comforting, but viscerally far more unsettling. “Er…thank you, sir,” she said, not quite sure if she meant it. She pondered silently as they made their way back to the Infirmary.

* * *

“Severus, have you learnt anything more about Dolohov’s affliction?” Voldemort asked when his spy reported in.

“The Granger girl admitted that it was an unusually powerful Blistering Curse, but she refused to divulge details,” Snape replied. Privately, he was impressed with Granger’s resolve against Dumbledore and was glad she hadn’t told him anything. She had been vague enough that there was little harm in revealing that bit. “Since Dumbledore taught her Occlumency, I could learn no more, my Lord. She also claimed the trap that caught Avery was made from mundane cutting wires and that the curse she used on Bellatrix was _not_ a variant of the Killing Curse, but was based on a simpler spell.” Though he did not reveal _which_ spell it was.

“Interesting…” Voldemort said. “The mudblood has been a thorn in my side since she entered the magical world, but I had not thought her capable of such viciousness. And with her friendship with Potter, she could be particularly dangerous…Well, we have ways of dealing with her. Continue doing what you can for Dolohov, Severus. Macnair, promote the mudblood to Undesirable Number Two. If she is still alive when we take the Ministry, place the same bounty on her as Potter.”

“Yes, my Lord,” Macnair said.

“Rookwood, you saw the curse the mudblood cast on Bellatrix. Would you be able to reverse-engineer it?”

Rookwood thought it over for a minute. “I…I believe it is possible, my Lord.”

“See to it at once.”

“Of course…ah—my Lord…?” he asked hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I could be more confident of recreating it if I had access to a Pensieve.”

Voldemort inclined his head thoughtfully. Pensieves were rare, but collectors of artifacts like schools frequently owned them. “Hm, the traitor Karkaroff should have had one,” he mused. “Do what you can without one for now. When Dolohov is lucid again, I will have him reach out to his contacts at Durmstrang and inform them they will be greatly rewarded for delivering a working Pensieve to me.”


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: According to the ancient runes, JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.
> 
> Credit to troyguffey for having Hermione document rune stones with a camera.
> 
> A lot of people really hated Dumbledore for his ethics debate last chapter, and that really wasn’t my intention. There are plenty of other reasons to dislike him, but that was just him being old and set in his ways and a little too idealistic, so there was nothing malicious in it.
> 
> Thanks to ElDarkShadow, who has begun translating my stories into Portuguese.

The next day was a Hogsmeade day—the traditional “celebrate the end of exams” visit day—and given the mixed emotions of elation at Umbridge’s departure combined with grief for the death of a fellow student, Dumbledore decided it was better not to cancel it and instead let the students vent their energy in the village. There were naturally safety concerns, but they would be dealt with by a heavy Auror presence, and Harry and Hermione in particular were asked not to leave the grounds without an Auror escort.

After the mess he’d been through, Harry elected not to go and instead spent the day relaxing in the castle with Ginny. Hermione, however, had a job she needed to do in Hogsmeade that could not wait. She was definitely feeling better today, and her injuries were healing nicely, so she was ready to go. She grabbed Colin Creevey and his camera and, after some cajoling of the Auror guards, she successfully got Tonks to be her escort in the village. Someone with a healthy scepticism of the rules was called for here.

Tonks was naturally apologetic when she first met up with then. “Hermione, I am so sorry about the Department of Mysteries,” she said. “I should have been with the Order, but I had to help McGonagall, and then I had to book Umbridge, and then, when Vector told me you’d been kidnapped, I thought it was more important to get a strong Auror team together. But all we did was get there when it was all over.”

“It’s okay, Tonks,” she assured her. “You did what you thought was best. And you still helped drive Voldemort away.”

“Er, right. Thanks, Hermione. So where are you going that you need a photographer?”

“I need to find a rune stone. Professor Slughorn said they would be in a line extending due east from the castle.”

“A rune stone?” she said in surprise. “Do I even want to know?”

“Probably not,” Hermione said with a grin.

Tonks didn’t know where any rune stones would be besides the one under the Hogsmeade town hall, but Hermione reasoned that if they were based on the old milestone system (even though the Romans had never come this far north) they should be one mile apart.

That did not go as well as she’d hoped. It turned out the old Scots mile was about two hundred yards longer than the English statute mile she was naively assuming, but, using a map and compass, she eventually found one as Tonks indulgently stalked into the woods near the Shrieking Shack to search with them. The rune stone was smaller than the Roman milestones she’d looked up in the library: a rectangular block of granite about three feet high and maybe half that on a side, carved all over with tidy little runes. She asked Colin to take photos of all four sides. Unlike the masterpiece that was the Hogwarts anchor stones, this stone seems to maintain only a few basic area spells. She’d have to look them up, but she could guess the main ones were the Trace, the Portkey Network, the Floo Network, something to reinforce Unplottability Charms, the local Muggle-Repelling Charms for Hogsmeade, and runes to prevent wear on the stone itself. Luckily, many of the relevant rune clusters were fairly easy to pick out in such a small area, unlike the big anchor stones, and she anticipated little difficulty in interpreting it.

Tonks did grow a little nervous when Colin started taking pictures. She wasn’t stupid, and she could guess what they were for. “Hermione,” she said, “are you trying to do what I think you’re trying to do?”

“I will not confirm or deny,” she said, “but I promise you Tonks, it’s for a good cause.”

Tonks hesitantly accepted that. “Okay, just don’t do anything stupid, then.”

Colin was loving it either way. He thought it was amazing how the Ministry extended a magical web like that over the entire country, rather than disturbing, as Hermione found it. She told him to meet her by the kitchens the next morning, and she’d show him something _really_ amazing.

* * *

Professor Slughorn arrived at the castle to visit Hermione and Harry that afternoon. Harry begged off Ginny for a little while to talk to him in private, and they met him at the main doors, from which Hermione led the way to the seventh floor.

“It’s good to see the both of you are in one piece,” Slughorn said. “I was sorry to hear about your friend. From what I heard, he had the makings of a great Quidditch commentator.”

“He was a good man, Professor,” Hermione snapped. “He was young and had his whole life ahead of him, and he gave his life for his friends because nobody else was competent enough to protect us.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong; he certainly was a good man,” Slughorn said apologetically. “Not just anyone could charge in against the Death Eaters like that. I’m sure he will be remembered well.”

“Sorry, Professor,” she mumbled. “It’s still pretty raw.”

“Of course. Of course, Miss Granger, I understand. I’m far too familiar with the feeling myself from all these wars.”

They made awkward small talk until they reached the Room of Requirement, and Hermione activated it. “People know about this place now,” she explained, “but it’s still reasonably private, and honestly, the rest of the castle isn’t very well furnished for guests.” She opened the door and revealed that it opened onto a small, but luxurious lounge with a picture window that offered a beautiful view of the Lake.

“Ah, I do admire your taste, Miss Granger,” Slughorn said.

They entered the room and sat down. Hermione had briefly discussed the plan with Harry; they would butter Slughorn up to start with, and they would wait to ask what they needed to know so that he would not be as suspicious. Hopefully between that and appealing to the seriousness of the war, it would be enough to convince him to open up.

“We wanted to thank you properly for agreeing to teach us this year, Professor,” Hermione started. “I know it can’t have been easy. Professor Dumbledore said you really wanted to avoid the Order, so we’re glad we could reach a compromise. And I was so grateful last autumn—I don’t remember if I told you, but it’s so hard to find a tutor as a muggle-born, and I was honestly worried that if I stayed at Hogwarts, my parents could wind up in Azkaban if something went wrong.”

“Yeah, and since you agreed to teach me too, it saved me a lot of trouble,” Harry agreed.

“I’ve been very happy to help, Mr. Potter, Miss Granger,” Slughorn replied. “It’s been a joy to teach two such distinguished students, and besides that, Headquarters is much nicer than where I was staying before.”

“Well, we just wanted to show our appreciation for you, so we got you this,” Hermione said.

She handed him a small, wrapped parcel. Slughorn took it, looking very pleased, and carefully unwrapped it. When he opened the box, his eyebrows shot up. It was a new gold Double Albert watch chain. Diamond studded. Serial number epsilon—five. He held it up to the light. “You bought this for me?” he asked.

“I bought the chain,” Harry said. “Hermione added the diamonds.”

He fished out his wand and conjured a jeweller’s loupe to inspect the diamonds more carefully. “These—why these look flawless, Miss Granger,” he said. “How did you manage this?”

“That, Professor, is a trade secret,” she said. “Just remember the name…Archimedes.” With luck, that would give him the impression of a revolutionary up-and-comer in the business world that she was going for.

“Archimedes?”

She leaned closer to him. “Will you keep this a secret, Professor? You can use the name in public, but I’d rather no one knew who was behind it.”

“Certainly, Miss Granger. Is this a business? You’re going for the mysterious angle, I assume?”

“Yes. Plus, it’s better that the Death Eaters don’t know about it. Of course, I’ve already invested in Creevey Bros. Pictures, and I’m a partner in Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, but this is one of my own. I have the means to cater to the most elite of the elite, and I’m sure you’ll be hearing about it in a few years.” She knew he’d like that bit.

“Then I am honoured you trust me enough to confide in me,” he said, “and to gift me such a marvellous artifact—with Mr. Potter’s help, of course.” Hermione smirked inwardly. This was going even better than she’d hoped. “May I ask how you’re getting it started?”

She nodded and told him the basics, keeping it vague enough that he probably couldn’t piece everything together. Is was a bit risky, but if Dumbledore was right about his secrets, she was sure his discretion could be trusted. He certainly seemed pleased with what she told him. Gradually, the conversation turned to other topics, such as how their friends were doing and eventually asking what had happened at the Department of Mysteries. Hermione and Harry again gave him a relatively vague description. After Dumbledore’s reaction, she decided to skim over the “dark” magic she used.

It was this topic that gave her a segue to bring the conversation around to their true interest. “Professor, there’s something we really need to ask you about. We haven’t had the time, and we didn’t expect it to run right up against the end of term…”

Slughorn leaned forward with a quizzical look. “What do you need to know?” he asked.

“We know you taught Voldemort when he was a student, sir, and Professor Dumbledore thought you might have some useful insights into his history. Since he’s been so busy, he asked us to talk to you about it.”

He immediately became more guarded at that. “I’m not sure what insights he thinks I could provide,” he said.

“To be honest, he was a bit vague with us, too, but we know it has something to do with… _horcruxes_.”

A glared crossed Slughorn’s face. It might have been the first time she’d seen that look on him. “ _Well_ , I don’t know what Dumbledore’s playing at,” he huffed, “but I know nothing— _nothing_ —about horcruxes! And I do need to be on my way.” He hefted his bulk up to leave.

“Yes, he said you would say that,” Hermione said.

He barely slowed down: “Then you can see he’s wasting your time.”

“He’s not wasting our time!” Harry said. He jumped up and ran in front of him.

“I don’t always agree with Dumbledore, but he always has a reason for what he does, Professor,” Hermione said, rising calmly to join her friend. “And if you don’t know anything about horcruxes, why are you being so defensive about them?”

“You don’t know what you’re meddling with.”

“But Dumbledore does, and he said it’s important,” Harry said.

“This has been a lovely chat, but stand aside, please.” Slughorn’s hand inched towards his wand as he tried to get to the door.

Hermione was faster on the draw. “Professor, I knocked out two Death Eaters singlehanded after being disarmed, bound, and gagged,” she said quickly. “Do you really want to try this, or will you sit down and hear us out?”

At that, Slughorn actually paled. It was a gamble, she knew. If it came to a fight, Slughorn had a lifetime of experience on her, but he wasn’t a courageous person, and she _did_ know a few tricks no other witch or wizard did. He stood there, seemingly frozen with indecision. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “I don’t want to fight you. And I know I can’t _make_ you tell. But I _would_ like to be able to have a levelheaded discussion about this. I have a lot of respect for you, and this is just so out of character for you as an intellectual.”

Slughorn looked between his two students, and he eventually backed down, slumping into his seat. “I meant what I said: you do _not_ understand what you’re meddling with, Miss Granger, Mr. Potter,” he repeated. “I don’t know why Dumbledore wants you to know about such vile magic, but no good can come of it.”

So he _did_ know something about it. “Not even defeating Voldemort?” Harry said.

He flinched at the name, but he shook his head. “Mr. Potter, I have seen far too much damage done by such forays into dark magic.”

“It _was_ by Voldemort, wasn’t it?” Hermione asked. “The horcruxes—they’re some kind of…weapon or artifact he has?” Maybe they were what made him so powerful, she thought. Slughorn didn’t respond immediately, so she continued, “Sir, Professor Dumbledore has been giving us assignments of sorts for the Order. There’s a lot I can’t really tell you, but basically, we’ve come to the conclusion that the only way to beat Voldemort for good is to hit him with something he doesn’t see coming. And Harry especially needs to be ready. He’s…he’s Voldemort’s number one target. And _I_ am trying to invent the magic for him to use. I have ideas for spells that I’m pretty sure Voldemort doesn’t know are even possible. Even Dumbledore thinks I have a good chance at it. But if we’re going to succeed at this, don’t we need to know _exactly_ what we’re up against? If Voldemort has some powerful secret weapon, don’t we need to know about it?”

Slughorn regarded her with renewed interest. He sounded almost hopeful when he spoke again: “Miss Granger…Does Dumbledore truly believe you two can fight He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named?”

“Not alone, of course, but working together with the Order? Yes, he does.” Technically, she was stretching the truth a little. She hadn’t run her particular spells past Dumbledore, but he had admitted her “plan” was plausible.

“But we’re going to need help, Professor,” Harry found the thread, shooting Hermione a grateful look. “Dumbledore needs me to be strong enough to stand up to Voldemort. I need Hermione to teach me how to do that. We both need the Order and our friends to save our arses when we get in trouble. And we need your help too, sir, but we don’t need you to fight. We only need a little information. Can you do that for us? Tell us what we we to know to survive whatever horrible trouble we seem to get into every year?”

Hermione was once again thankful for Harry. He really _got_ it when he paid attention. They were Slughorn’s only two students right now, and he thought very highly of both of them. Harry’s plea would play to his softer spots. Slughorn looked at her sadly and said, “You may not respect me as much if I tell you, Miss Granger.”

“Sir, I can already guess that you told Tom Riddle something you shouldn’t have,” she told him. “I promise I’ll respect you more if you have the courage to do the right thing.”

Their teacher raised his head a little higher. “You truly are a Gryffindor at heart, Miss Granger,” he said. He paused for a minute, thinking it over, and he began to speak: “You have to understand, a horcrux is the darkest form of magic known to wizard kind. What…Riddle did with that knowledge was beyond the pale. I can only hope Dumbledore is right, and you can make it right again.” He took a deep breath and continued, “A horcrux is an object in which a person has concealed part of their soul.”

Hermione needed a couple of seconds for that to sink in, and then, she groaned and put her head in her hands. This was going to be the dementors all over again, wasn’t it? “A _part_ of their soul?” she asked. “What does that even mean?”

“It is just as it sounds. A dark wizard is capable of splitting their soul into pieces. And no, I don’t know how it’s done, and I wouldn’t tell you if I did! Man is not meant to meddle in such things. I can tell you only that it requires an ultimate act of evil.”

“Murder,” Harry said.

There was an air of certainty in the word, and Slughorn nodded: “Yes. A murder committed in cold blood.”

In the back of her mind, Hermione flagged that thought. It seemed a bit too neat. Neville would probably have a different idea of what an ultimate act of evil was. More likely, it was a ritual that went back to the long tradition of human sacrifice in various cultures.

“With a horcrux,” he continued, “part of the soul is hidden in an object outside the body. Then, even if the body is destroyed, the dark wizard cannot die, for part of their soul remains earthbound and undamaged.”

“That’s how Voldemort came back, isn’t it?” Harry whispered in horror. “He made a horcrux so he couldn’t die, and he was only left as a spirit.”

Slughorn lowered his gaze and shook his head: “Oh, how I wish it were that simple, Mr. Potter. You-Know-Who didn’t make one horcrux…he made _six_.”

“Six?” Hermione gasped.

He looked up again, his voice hollow and halting: “When Tom Riddle was student, he…he came to me…and he asked about horcruxes. He seemed to know something about them already, but I…I was still so dazzled by his talent, I didn’t want to suspect him. I filled in some of the gaps for him. I am ashamed to say it, but I did. But what _he_ suggested to me was so horrifying, I couldn’t deny the darkness in him any longer. He thought that one horcrux wasn’t safe enough. He suggested that six—for a seven-part soul—would guard him more firmly against death and perhaps even make him arithmantically more powerful. I told him not to think such things, I swear to you. I told him that to split one’s soul into seven pieces would be a horror beyond contemplation, but the damage was done.”

“So…so that means Voldemort can’t die unless his horcruxes are destroyed?” Harry asked. He’d gone even paler than Slughorn by now.

“I’m afraid so, Mr. Potter. Until they are destroyed, he will always be able to return.”

Hermione was horrified. How could you fight a man who couldn’t die? Obviously, Dumbledore was trying to tell them that the horcruxes would have to be destroyed, and soon. But what were they? Where were they? What if the task was impossible? Could he be contained indefinitely? But she soon realised that if this exercise wasn’t to be completely pointless, Slughorn must know something Dumbledore didn’t—or at least Dumbledore expected him to. “Professor, do you have any what what or where Voldemort’s horcruxes are?” she asked.

“Certainly not! I wasn’t about to make that confrontation with him, and he probably would have killed me if I had. I should think Dumbledore has more leads on that front.”

“He hasn’t told us much,” Harry said. “I think he was waiting for this information.”

Hermione wondered if they had any information to pin down any horcruxes. Dumbledore _had_ pointed out the young Riddle’s habit of collecting trophies, and he had noted a couple of heirlooms of his family. She tried to think if she knew of any other objects associated with Voldemort, and to her surprise, one did come to mind. “Professor, these horcruxes, would they be able to possess people?” she asked.

“Possess? Why…yes, they would,” Slughorn said in surprise. “Why?”

“And they could carry out his plans? They could give someone his ability to speak Parseltongue?”

“Hermione, what are you talking about?” Harry asked.

“The diary. The one that possessed Ginny. I think it was a horcrux. Think about it. What book has a mind of its own _and_ has a magical ability like Parseltongue.”

Comprehension dawned on Harry’s face. “Merlin’s beard, but…that means we already destroyed a horcrux,” he said.

“If I’m right. We’ll have to ask Dumbledore. We should go talk to him right away. Professor Slughorn, thank you very much. You’ve been a great help.” _I hope_. “And I really did mean what I said. I have a lot of respect for you, and I’m very grateful to you for teaching me this term.”

He sighed with relief. “Thank you, Miss Granger. That’s good to hear. And I wish you the best of luck. I fear you’ll need it.”

She nodded, and the two of them left the Room and hurried back to Dumbledore’s office to tell him what they had learnt. He beamed at them when they told him.

“This is spectacular news,” he said. “Very well done. I knew you could do it.”

“Professor, ‘spectacular’ isn’t exactly the word I’d use,” Hermione said. “What Professor Slughorn told us about horcruxes…I’m starting to worry that we can’t win this fight.”

A shadow seemed to cross Dumbledore’s face, but it vanished so quickly that Hermione thought she must have imagined it. “You should not fear for such an imminent defeat, Hermione,” he said, “for we are now armed with knowledge that I think will be crucial to defeating Voldemort. Come, tell me what you have learnt.”

They repeated everything Slughorn had told them. Dumbledore nodded in agreement throughout their explanation, and he looked thoughtful when they were finished. “I have been hoping for this information for a long time,” he said. “It confirms the theory I have been working on and shows us how just far we have to go.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the Headmaster. How much of this had he already known? What wasn’t he telling them? “Could you maybe fill in some of the gaps for us, sir?” she asked.

“Of course. Excuse me. I should start at the beginning. I knew on the first of November, 1981 that Voldemort was not dead. You see, the Dark Mark, which he has branded onto the arm of every member of his inner circle, is tied to his life force. If he were truly dead, it would have faded away completely. However, Professor Snape confirmed to me that it had not, so I was forced to conclude that he had survived. _How_ he had survived I could only guess. There was not enough evidence at the scene. Over the years, I developed several theories, a horcrux being one of them. But I could not confirm it until three years ago, when I was given conclusive proof that Voldemort had split his soul.”

He stopped and looked between them, as if expecting them to make the connection. “Tom’s diary?” Harry said.

“Indeed. A mere memory, or a cursed object, could not both think and act for itself and drain Miss Weasley’s life force in order to grow stronger. The diary was assuredly a horcrux. But this troubled me for another reason: the horcrux was destroyed and Voldemort still yet lived. And I knew he would not be so careless as to turn his only chance at immortality into a weapon. The only explanation was that he had made _multiple_ horcruxes—something that no dark wizard in recorded history had ever done before.

“It then became a task to learn Voldemort’s full plan for the horcruxes. That is why it was crucial for you to speak to Professor Slughorn. Shortly before his retirement, he confided to me a hint that the young Tom Riddle had discussed the subject with him as a student, but he refused to say anything more. Thanks to you, we now know what that plan is: six horcruxes for a seven-part soul.”

“But what are they?” Harry asked. “And where are they?”

“That is why I had begun showing you the memories I have collected in April,” he replied. He rose from his seat to retrieve his Pensieve from its cabinet. “I had collected many memories of Voldemort over the years, and once I knew what to look for, I combed through them again for any clues to his horcruxes. I had hoped to spend more time on them—to give you time to ruminate and fully absorb them and to consider them from many angles to tease out hidden details, as I have. But alas, our time is much shorter than I feared. Our plans for the summer are uncertain, and so, we must finish them now. Let us begin.”

Dumbledore prepared the Pensieve, and they viewed two new memories. The first showed an eighteen-year-old Tom Riddle working as an errand boy for Borgin and Burkes, a shop that had a really dark reputation, but from the look of it was really just the magical equivalent of a pawn shop. On this particular errand, Riddle went to visit a rich and gaudy old maid named Hepzibah Smith who confided to him that she was in possession of not one, but two artifacts from the Founders of Hogwarts: Slytherin’s locket, which Riddle’s mother had sold to Mr. Burke years earlier, and a golden cup belonging to her ancestor Helga Hufflepuff. It was impossible to miss the covetous look in Riddle’s eyes.

It emerged that Hepzibah Smith died two days later. Her house elf, Hokey, who was very old and easily confused, confessed to accidentally poisoning her cocoa, which everyone but Dumbledore believed. The two Founders’ artifacts were lost, but this was not deemed suspicious because Hepzibah’s heirs all accused each other of stealing them.

The final memory was short. It was ten years later, after Riddle had more or less openly begun going by the name Lord Voldemort and after he had begun recruiting Death Eaters, though they were then known as the Knights of Walpurgis. Voldemort was already becoming disfigured by dark magic, and his eyes had a permanent red cast. Yet he still came up to Hogwarts and asked Dumbledore to his face to take up the roll of Defence Against the Dark Arts Professor. He was of course refused. This was an obvious ruse, the older Dumbledore said, since Voldemort must have known he would never give him the job, and by that point, his only interest in the post was as a further recruitment tool. But as to his true motive, Dumbledore knew nothing, although it _was_ at this time that Voldemort cursed the job so that no Defence Professor could remain longer than one year.

“So Voldemort’s actually been collecting powerful artifacts his whole life?” Hermione said dejectedly. That was worrying enough aside from the horcrux aspect.

“To a degree,” Dumbledore answered. “He has no great store like the Department of Mysteries has, but yes, he collected these few, and I believe one or two others.”

“Those are the horcruxes, aren’t they?” Harry asked.

“Very good, Harry. Given Voldemort’s proclivity for collecting valuable trophies, I believe he made them into horcruxes.”

That seemed a bit odd to Hermione. “So he hasn’t been…using them?” she asked.

“For their purported powers? No, he has not. Voldemort regards spells and rituals—more direct attacks—as far surer means to power. And these artifacts are all so old that any accurate records of their powers, if they even had any, are lost. Rather, I believe he thought that having famous and valuable artifacts as horcruxes would render his soul more secure.”

“Well, that sounds well and good, Professor, but what if you’re wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Dumbledore asked.

“I mean, what if Voldemort’s just a kleptomaniac, and the artifacts _aren_ _’t_ related to the horcruxes?” Harry also gave her a funny look at that. “Think about it,” she said. “If Voldemort’s any kind of smart, he’ll have used an unassuming rock for a horcrux and tossed it in the ocean. What if it’s literally impossible to find them all?”

Harry looked horrified, and Dumbledore turned solemn. “Ah, yes,” the Headmaster said. “I admit the thought has kept me awake for more than a few nights. In that case, we would have to find some way to bind him permanently—no easy task, but it would be the only option available to us. But on the whole, I think Voldemort has two great weaknesses that make such a scenario very unlikely. First, he is vain and narcissistic. He regards himself, in all respects, as exceptional. He would not accept such a mundane object as a rock to house a piece of his own precious soul. This, I believe, is why he collected priceless historical artifacts to serve his purpose. And second, and I am even more certain of this, Voldemort desires control in all things. He would never place a horcrux beyond his ability to personally access it, just in case he ever needed to.”

Hermione thought that over. It made sense, and it seemed consistent with Voldemort’s character, but she didn’t want to take the chance of underestimating him. “I admit that sounds plausible, sir,” she said. “But just the same, what if we’ve made a mistake? Or if a future dark lord ever gets smart and hides his horcrux at the bottom of the ocean, or launches it into space or something?”

“Then we will be in for a very difficult time,” Dumbledore said. “But let us worry about one problem at a time. We have a plan that has a strong chance of success—far greater than any other—and we should pursue it.”

“That’s still only four horcruxes, though,” Harry said. “What about the other two?”

“That is the first puzzle we must solve, Harry, but again, we have clues. Consider the objects that Voldemort seems to have used for his horcruxes: the diary, with its connection to the Chamber of Secrets, marking him personally as something extraordinary; an heirloom from his once-wealthy and powerful wizard family; an heirloom from Salazar Slytherin; and an heirloom from Helga Hufflepuff.”

“Artifacts from the Founders, maybe?” Harry suggested.

“Yes, I think so. Voldemort feels a powerful draw for such symbolism, and four objects from the four Founders of Hogwarts—the greatest wizards known to him in his youth—would have captivated his imagination, and would have equalled six. Now, I am confident that the only known relics of Gryffindor remain uncorrupted—for they are both in this office.”

Harry turned around and looked at the Sword of Gryffindor in its glass display case. “That’s one,” he said. “What’s the other one?”

“The Sorting Hat, of course. And I think we would notice if it had turned evil.”

“Excuse me, but can you be absolutely certain of that, Professor?” Hermione challenged him again. “Do you have a spell to detect horcruxes?”

“Not as such, but the corrupting influence of a horcrux is impossible to hide. This is another advantage we have. All magic, and especially dark magic, leaves traces. I have to guess that Voldemort instead tracked down an artifact of Ravenclaw’s—or perhaps an undiscovered artifact of Gryffindor’s—and made it into horcrux number five.”

“Why not both?” Harry asked, confused.

“Because, Harry, I _know_ what the sixth horcrux is.”

“You do?”

“Yes. You will recall the behaviour of Voldemort’s snake, Nagini, when she bit Arthur Weasley before Christmas. I don’t wish to bring up bad memories, but you will particularly remember how you witnessed the scene in your dream through the snake’s eyes. That would be possible only if Voldemort was able to project his consciousness into the snake, and since he has a corporeal body himself, this can only mean that the snake is a horcrux.”

“You can use animals as horcruxes?” he asked.

“It is not advisable, of course, for the animal would still have a mind of its own and would be more vulnerable. But we can reasonably reconstruct what happened from these clues. Voldemort had evidently not made his sixth horcrux as of Halloween of 1981. This is another piece of evidence, Hermione, that he was seeking special and powerful artifacts to use as his horcruxes rather than mundane items that he could have found anytime. I believe he meant to do so that night—with your death, Harry. He would certainly have appreciated the symbolism of destroying his prophesied greatest enemy and cementing the final piece of his plan for immortality in the same act. But as we know, he failed. Some years later, he acquired a body again and, fearful that his defeat might be repeated, he made a horcrux using the first particularly notable object he had at hand, his familiar, choosing again to make his final horcrux into a weapon.”

Hermione had to admit that made a lot more sense than the first part of Dumbledore’s theory. She still worried about a future dark lord being smarter about that, though. She had a feeling she’d want to look into doing something about that eventually. She’d have to add it to her list.

Her list was beginning to look alarmingly long.

“So the diary’s gone,” Harry said. “The ring, the locket, the cup, and the snake are still out there. And the last one is something of Ravenclaw’s or maybe Gryffindor’s.”

“An accurate and succinct summary, Harry.”

“So how do we find them?”

“That I am still working on. As I have been researching Voldemort’s life for more than information about horcruxes, I also have been searching for places he may have hidden them—places that might have held a particular significance to him. As I said, he would want them to be accessible, just in case. But I confess I have made little progress so far. I will of course inform you when I know more and give you the opportunity to join me in searching them out.”

“You will?” he said in surprise.

“Oh, yes. I think you have earned that right. And after all, Harry, you are, if you’ll excuse the expression, the Chosen One. And you, Hermione have proved yourself more than capable, although I caution that Harry’s connection to Voldemort will make him more suited to this task.”

Hermione thought she heard a hint of _And I want to keep tabs on you_ in there, but she didn’t begrudge him for it. Much. “Thank you, Professor.”

“You’re quite welcome. Now, naturally, this information will have to be kept private,” he continued, “but I think you can safely tell your friends, the Weasley children, given your closeness with them.”

“Even though they don’t know Occlumency?” she asked.

“It was only Harry’s mind that I ever truly worried about, although for you to learn it as well was a nice bonus. You may tell them, and about the prophecy, too.” Dumbledore didn’t say it, but it was clearly implied that he was not intending for them to tell Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. While they were well-meaning and cared a lot for them, their natural protectiveness—especially Mrs. Weasley’s—would only get in the way. They left Dumbledore’s office in silence. Hermione wasn’t quite sure what to think. The fact that it was even possible to split a soul into pieces was unsettling. The fact that Voldemort was literally invincible in his current state was terrifying. And she couldn’t seem to shake a bit of confusion about some of the things Dumbledore had said—mainly about the snake. It felt like it didn’t quite add up, but she couldn’t place why. But still, even though Voldemort had them massively outclassed, at least they had a plan. That was something.

* * *

Professor McGonagall returned to the castle the next morning. Hermione and a lot of the current Gryffindors greeted her warmly when they saw her and even more so when she awarded the members of the D.A. a ridiculous number of points for driving Umbridge out of the castle—although that was mostly on principle. Hermione didn’t have the heart to tell her that most of the students had long since been ignoring the House Cup competition.

Sunday was also the day that the _Daily Prophet_ broke the big story about Voldemort’s return, after shorter announcements about the happenings on the previous two days. Hermione was thankful that Rita Skeeter still had another week on her one-year ban on publishing. She hoped she didn’t regret not making a better deal.

Finally, that morning, Colin Creevey met Hermione at the kitchens with his camera, as they’d agreed, bringing Dennis along with him. “Alright, Hermione?” he said. “What are we looking at today?”

“Just something that only the N.E.W.T. Ancient Runes students normally ever see,” she said. She motioned for two house elves who were holding hands to come forward. “Colin, Dennis, this is Dobby and Sonya. They’ll be getting us in.”

“Pleased to meet you, Messieurs Creeveys,” Sonya squeaked. “Please be following us.”

Dobby opened the door leading from the basement level of the Grand Staircase downward, and Colin and Dennis could see the double ring of glowing quartz stones two hundred feet below.

“Whoa! What is this?” Colin said.

“Those are the anchor stones of Hogwarts,” Hermione said. “All the wards and enchantments of the school plus things like the national Portkey and Floo networks are carved into that stone circle. It’s supposed to be the most powerful concentration of magic in Western Europe.”

“Merlin’s beard! This is so cool! And you want us to photograph this?”

“Just a few places. We don’t want the full content of the wards falling into the wrong hands. I want to look for sequences that resemble the ones we found yesterday.”

Colin and Dennis readily agreed. It turned out to be pretty easy to find most of the runes that were on the Ministry rune stone. They were carved into the softer “scratch” tiles of obsidian embedded into the floor, no doubt later additions from when the Ministry was founded, long after Hogwarts was built. She also looked around for more information about the geometric structure of the school and few other puzzles she had, but she kept the details of that to herself. With the photos taken care of, they climbed back up, and Hermione rejoined Harry and the Weasleys for an in-depth discussion about prophecies and horcruxes. They had waited to digest the material last night, but they knew they couldn’t get out of it any longer.


	35. Chapter 35

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to you know who. No, not him—the other you know who.
> 
> Well, here it is: the end of Year 5. I really hadn’t planned on it being longer than the actual book, but things should go faster from here on out. Come back next week as Hermione starts a very busy summer.

George, Fred, Ron, and Ginny were appropriately horrified by the idea of horcruxes, but they didn’t seem to be as concerned about the prophecy. Though Ginny still clung to Harry tightly when she heard it, she admitted it wasn’t entirely unexpected. “It’s kind of like we already knew, isn’t it?” she said. “How he keeps coming after you—you’ve had to face him almost every year. I sort of figured it wouldn’t stop until he…well, until one of you…”

“It’s alright, Ginny,” Harry said as she held him closer. “I felt the same way. He’s not gonna stop coming after me. And I’d have always wanted to end him if I could, so it doesn’t really change anything.”

“But now you know you can do it,” Ron pointed out. “Do you have any idea what the power he knows not is?”

“No,” Harry said. “Dumbledore thinks it’s love—yeah, I know—but Hermione says it could be some kind of spell she invents and teaches me.”

The Weasleys all turned and stared in surprise at Hermione.

“What?” she said. “The prophecy didn’t say it has to be some kind of superpower. It just has to be something that Harry knows and Voldemort doesn’t.”

“Ha! That’s my girl,” George said. “There’s always a loophole to these things, isn’t there.”

“Do you really think that’s it?” Ginny asked. “There’s a bunch of other things it could be.”

Hermione wasn’t so sure. “Are there? You didn’t see Voldemort duelling Dumbledore at the Ministry. I thought wizards that powerful only existed in legends. Raw power isn’t going to win this.”

“Oh…” she said, disappointed.

“Harry,” Ron said, “this is gonna sound nuts, but d’you think it could be that weird connection you’ve got with You-Know-Who?”

“What?” Harry and Ginny said in unison, and Ginny added, “Ron, Harry just spent half the year learning how to block that.”

“I know, but mate, you saw what the snake was doing and saved Dad. I know you needed to stop it to keep You-Know-Who from controlling you, but what if—now that you know that Occlumency stuff…?”

Harry considered that, but he shook his head: “That sounds nice, but Dumbledore didn’t say anything about that, and he definitely would have if it were useful.”

“He’d probably say it’s still too dangerous,” Hermione said firmly. “I’d bet Voldemort is better than Occlumency that you are, and he could get in your head again…that…way…” She trailed off. Suddenly, that nagging feeling in the back of her mind twinged much harder. Pieces started to fall into place, but she couldn’t believe the conclusion. “No, surely not,” she whispered.

“What?” Harry asked.

“Nothing,” she said too quickly.

“That didn’t sound like nothing,” Ginny said shrewdly.

“It’s not important. I was thinking about something else.” She got up to go.

“Where are you going?”

“I just need to go think for a minute, okay?” she snapped. She hurried off before any of them could follow her.

She finally found a place where she could stop and think in peace. She didn’t want to even hint at it to her friends until she could process it. She didn’t want to believe the conclusion her mind was coming to. Did it really even fit the facts? She thought back to what Dumbledore had said yesterday: that Voldemort could project his mind from his body and possess the snake was proof that the snake was a horcrux. But Voldemort could _also_ project his mind to attack Harry with Legilimency—something that wasn’t normally supposed to be possible with Legilimency. He hadn’t actually tried to possess Harry to Hermione’s knowledge, but Dumbledore had hinted that the threat was there.

But could that mean that Harry himself was…? It didn’t make any sense! Voldemort had gone on and made another horcrux after he came back. He wouldn’t have done that if he already had six…unless he’d never found another Founder’s artifact, and he only had five. But still, if it was inadvisable to make an animal into a horcrux, surely it was infinitely more inadvisable to use a human who would be openly hostile to you…unless he was worried about the prophecy and trying to ensure his survival through both of them. Voldemort himself was the only living witness who actually remembered that night, so there were a lot of unknowns there. But that didn’t sound like his style at all.

And no, it _couldn_ _’t_ be! Voldemort had deliberately and unequivocally tried to kill Harry at least twice since that Halloween night and maybe more times, and he _never_ would have done that to his own horcrux. He would have tried to capture him, curse him into insanity, or otherwise neutralise him without killing him. So Voldemort couldn’t possibly have made Harry into a horcrux.

But then where did that weird connection between them come from? Dumbledore had never really answered that, and they’d just accepted it as a _fait accompli_. She didn’t know _any_ magic that remotely fit that description.

Well, she wouldn’t get anywhere with that. She’d need the time to research it, and she’d promised Septima a visit this weekend. Crisis averted, she’d have to let it go for now.

* * *

Septima was a little more standoffish towards Hermione than she’d been in the past when she visited. “I’m sorry if I…freaked out a little yesterday, Hermione,” she said. “I thought you argument was well-reasoned, and I certainly don’t have a problem with you doing whatever you had to to stay alive. I was very glad to see you were still in one piece. It’s just that…well, this one of those problems that muggle-borns tend to have.”

Hermione frowned: “What do you mean?”

“ _Discretion_. And maybe perspective. Hermione, you can’t say the words ‘Heart-Stopping Curse’ and not expect people to think of the Killing Curse or something close to it.”

“Oh…” she said. In retrospect, it should have been obvious. “Sorry about that. I guess I was digging through medical books so long that I didn’t notice.”

“You really got this from the muggle Healers?” Septima asked.

“In a manner of speaking…I can show you what I did if you want.” She pulled out a stack of parchment from her portfolio.

“You’d share that with me?” she said in surprise. “After you wouldn’t with Dumbledore?”

“Honestly?” She hesitated. “I don’t fully trust Dumbledore anymore, Septima.”

“You don’t?” Septima looked even more worried by that than the Heart-Stopping Curse.

“I trust his motives, of course, but I’ve disagreed with his methods several times this year, not just yesterday. I believe he’s been too careless with the lives of others and has a bad habit of keeping important information to himself. That’s why I took matters into my own hands and made those rings. But I _do_ trust you. In fact, you’re the only person I trust who would understand the implications of the arithmancy.”

“Oh…I’m flattered, Hermione, really. And to be honest, I’d feel more comfortable if I saw what you were doing so I could tell that it really _wasn_ _’t_ dark.”

“It wasn’t—or only a little,” she confirmed and showed her a sheet of parchment. “Here’s the derivation.”

Septima looked it over for a minute. “That really _is_ the Sumerian Strike Hex. And the rest of it…” Her brow furrowed as she puzzled over the figures. “But…but these are all time and space variables. They shouldn’t have changed the effect. It shouldn’t be any worse than a punch to the chest. How could this possibly be lethal?”

“ _Commotio Cordis_. That’s not just the incantation. It’s the name of a medical condition in muggle science. You see, the human heart beats by sending nerve signals to the muscles in a specific sequence. If an object like a cricket ball—a small ball used in muggle sports—strikes someone in the chest under exactly the right circumstances, even without magic, it can interrupt the heartbeat and stop it. The only cure is to deliver a sizable electric shock to the heart to restart it. Without it, it’s fatal in minutes.”

Septima was agape. “I’ve never even heard of that,” she said. “Muggles can actually die from that.”

“Witches and wizards can die from it, too,” Hermione said defensively. “Otherwise it wouldn’t have worked on Bellatrix Lestrange. Our hearts aren’t substantially different. But it’s incredibly rare. Only about one in two hundred thousand muggles dies from it, so I suspect the wizarding world is too small to have ever recorded it.”

“But if it’s so easy to die from it, why is it so rare?” Septima asked worriedly.

“Because normally it’s _not_ that easy. The blow has to hit at just the right place, at just the right angle, _and_ at just the right time. There’s only a period of a hundredth of a second during each heartbeat when the heart is vulnerable.”

“So that’s what the space and time elements are for,” she reasoned. “They slightly adjust the spell’s speed and aim so it hits on target at the right time.”

“That’s right.”

“But you said it went through Bellatrix’s shield. How did you manage that?”

Hermione smiled: “Quantum tunnelling.” She flipped to the next page. “Look here. Spells are basically waveforms, and if you actually know partial differential equations and wave mechanics, you can do some really interesting things—like when a sine wave hits a barrier, it can become an exponential decay function in the complex plane, and part of the energy can pass through it. It loses some of its energy, and it’ll only go through one layer of shielding, but it works.”

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione. You invented a spell that just…jumps across shields? That’s normally pretty dark stuff, too, but I’ve never seen it done like that. Would that…would that work on other spells?”

“No. This is the only spell I could find with an exact solution for it because the Sumerian Strike Hex is so simple, and because I was already using those time and space variables. That’s a common problem in muggle quantum mechanics, too.”

“So, just to be clear, you exploited something the body does on its own instead of making the spell do that?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that is…a little disturbing. Still. It’s brilliant work, but it’s disturbing. It’s too bad you can’t publish something like this, but I think it’s for the best. And what were the other spells you used?”

“The one I hit Mulciber with was simple enough. You remember how we were talking about fractal spells?”

“Yes.”

“I used one on a Piercing Hex. The two dimensional Cantor set in the third iteration. That makes sixteen smaller piercing hexes scattered over a wider area. Like Snape said, it _is_ basically the same effect as a muggle shotgun.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you’d got that far with that work. And you should be careful with that. That kind of maths hasn’t been used in spellcrafting before. We don’t really know what all the effects will be.”

“Well, it’s also not dark according to the basic magical criteria, if that’s what your worried about,” Hermione said. “It doesn’t cause particularly intractable damage, and it doesn’t require malicious intent to cast.”

“But it can’t be as simple to cast as an ordinary charm, can it?” Septima asked.

“It’s not. But the mental state needed to cast a fractal spell is more…transcendental, I guess. It was more important when I was teaching it to myself than using it in a fight, but with fractal spells, you sort of have to train yourself to look past everything and gaze into the infinite…which, now that I say it out loud, sounds pretty scary by wizard standards, but I think muggles have got a lot more used to that kind of thing over the past century.”

“So you’ve told me, but I think I’m starting to understand. What about Dolohov, though?”

Hermione hung her head. “That one _was_ dark,” she admitted. “I thought I needed to invent a few darker curses because it’s easier to bash through shields with them. I wasn’t…I wasn’t intending to use it in that way. It just sort of slipped out.”

“Everyone gets angry sometimes, Hermione. You’d just lost a friend, and you were in a fight for your life. I understand. But what did you do to him?”

She grimaced and answered, “ _Epidermolysis bullosa_. It’s another medical condition—normally a birth defect, and a bad one. It’s also very rare: one in twenty thousand live births. I don’t know whether wizards get it or not, but if you know Greek and Latin, well…It causes the layers of skin to separate and rub against each other, causing it to blister and even slough off at the lightest touch. And if you think that sounds bad…it’s much worse…I’ve seen photos.”

Septima took a moment to process the implications. “My God,” she muttered and with a stern voice told her, “Hermione, that is _not_ a spell you should be inventing, let alone using.”

“Like I said, I meant it as a shield-breaker—or at least that’s what I told myself. I still feel better having it in my arsenal, but I understand I need to restrain myself.”

“I’m afraid I have to agree with you there. You’re a good person. Remember that. But this kind of stuff? I don’t believe like Dumbledore does, but this worries me. You need to be careful not to cross a line you can’t walk back, and I don’t just mean Unforgivable Curses or something like that.”

Hermione suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. “Septima, I don’t need to use Unforgivable Curses,” she told her. “I hope I won’t need to use spells as dark as that one, either. I may have been careless the other night, but I can find another way to do whatever I need to. All it takes is a little creativity.”

To her surprise, Septima paled again. “Hermione, you can be really scary sometimes,” she said, apparently imagining what else she could do if she got really creative. “Frankly, I don’t know if I fully agree with you, but all I can say is, thank God you’re on our side.”

* * *

Hermione spent the rest of the day flitting between various projects. She was disappointed that Septima wasn’t more supportive, but she tried not to let it get to her. And her whole ordeal had raised some good points: she needed more spells to fight the Death Eaters, and she needed more practice with the ones she had. She also needed to think more carefully about their strengths and weaknesses so she could choose them more wisely in a fight. She’d done that with the simpler ones, but not with the heavy curses. If she’d been more prepared at the Ministry…And besides that, she had a very difficult trigonometry problem that she would do well to solve this week before she left Hogwarts. She knew she would be having a very difficult talk with her parents, and she wanted to be in a better position to negotiate when she did—wow that really sounded wrong when she thought about it that way.

Oh, and she also had to take her makeup Muggle Studies and History exams on Friday.

She knew she was being absent towards her friends at supper. Her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of curses, horcruxes, triangulation, and various other problems. The strangeness of Harry’s connection with Voldemort was still nagging at her, like she’d forgotten something important, but she tried to dismiss it and focus on what her friends were saying. She could always get back to it later.

“Hermione?” George interrupted her thoughts. Like her, the Twins had been allowed to stay as visitors for the last week of term, although they weren’t sure if they would stay all week.

She turned to see him giving her a questioning look. “Sorry, what?”

“Are you okay? You’ve been distracted all night.”

“I’m fine, George. I just have a lot on my mind.” She really needed to be there more for her boyfriend, too. He’d just lost his best friend besides his twin. She shouldn’t be so distant at a time like this. “I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow, I’ll take the day off, and we can spend the day together.”

“Really? You have the time for that?” he asked with genuine concern.

“I can make do. After all, if Voldemort stops us from living, then he’s already winning.” She thought of the prophecy again, but she tried not to let it show.

“Thanks, Hermione. You’re the best,” he said, and he patted her on the head.

“Don’t do tha— _mmpf!_ ” she said as he kissed her.

After dinner, Hermione and her friends relaxed pleasantly in the Common Room, but it wasn’t as jovial as it once was. News of Lee’s death, not to mention Voldemort’s return, had hit Gryffindor hard, especially with all the Quidditch fiends in her former house. The one bright spot was George and Fred plotting up an epic end-of-year prank in Lee’s honour. She liked that idea; she thought it would be a fitting tribute, and it was good to see them keeping occupied, but she gave them a stern warning that if they disrupted her makeup exams, she’d use them as test subjects for her spells.

After a while, she left them to their brainstorming and joined Harry, Ginny, and Ron, who were sitting in the corner, having a hushed conversation about horcruxes. She hadn’t seen much of Ron and Ginny lately, and she wanted to try to make it up to them, too.

“I think he’d want to keep them close to him,” Ginny said. “Maybe he has them in a crystal casket in his basement like the Warlock’s Hairy Heart.”

“Nah, he’s already doing that with the snake,” Harry said. “And he wouldn’t keep them together.”

“I figure he’s got them hidden behind an impossible gauntlet of traps and monsters,” Ron said.

“Horcruxes?” Hermione said. They nodded. “I don’t know about that. Voldemort and Dumbledore are pretty evenly matched. If Voldemort can get through it, he might worry Dumbledore could, too.”

“Good point,” Harry said. “Say, Hermione, where would you hide a horcrux if you were Voldemort?” Harry asked.

“Harry!” she said with a grimace. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “But it’s something to think about. Where _would_ Voldemort hide them?”

“Do you have to keep saying his name?” Ron demanded.

Hermione rolled her eyes at him. “I suppose it is, but from what Dumbledore said, I don’t think I think much like him.”

“Try and give it a go, though?” Harry pushed her.

“Well, I guess I can try. If Dumbledore’s right, and he wanted it someplace accessible to him, I’d hide something like that someplace only I could get to,” she said. “Like a…a bank vault, maybe. That way, other people would guard it without knowing about it. Or a safe only I knew the combination to. But I’d want something like that as far from my enemies as possible. Like…buried in a treasure chest on an uncharted island in the Caribbean, or—” She paled suddenly. “Or, God help us, under a Fidelius Charm.”

But Harry shook his head. “No, you can’t be the caster and the original Secret Keeper,” Harry said. “He wouldn’t want to let anyone else in on his big secret.”

Hermione stared at him in astonishment.

“What? I learnt all I could about the Fidelius Charm after I found out what happened to my parents,” he said.

She laughed a little. “Well, there you go, Harry. You think more like him than I do.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Well, you’re the one who’s supposed to beat him, aren’t you? Still, I’m a little more worried about the fact that we don’t fully know what we’re looking for…Come to think of it, if Voldemort was planning to make his sixth horcrux the night he killed you, what was he planning to _use_ —?”

Everything stopped. Suddenly, the last piece of the puzzle fell into place, and Hermione turned white as a sheet. Dumbledore believed Voldemort had planned to make his final horcrux when he killed Harry as a baby. She didn’t know how a horcrux was made and didn’t particularly want to, but she guessed it involved a complicated ritual—plausibly one that had to be started before the murder. Maybe. She’d barely begun reading up on ritual magic. But what if Voldemort had begun the horcrux ritual before he tried to kill Harry, and when his own body died…it completed it?

“No,” she whispered.

“What?” asked Harry.

It couldn’t be. Surely, it was a mistake. And why wasn’t Harry corrupted by dark magic? Although…his mother’s protection might have done that. But what was Dumbledore playing at if she was right? Have Harry win by sacrificing himself in the end? Well…that _did_ sound uncomfortably like Dumbledore’s style—only if he thought he was completely out of other options, but still…But why was he suggesting she teach Harry her spells, then? Did he really think that strategy was any good, or was he just covering his bets? She didn’t want to believe it, but it made so many things fit so perfectly, and the ones it didn’t were at least plausible…

“Hermione, are you okay?” Ginny asked. “You’re staring again?”

“I…”

“Seriously, you okay there?” Ron said.

“I…I think I need to talk to Dumbledore.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, Ronald.” She got up to leave, but Harry followed her.

“What is it? Did you think of something?” he asked.

“Yes—no—maybe, but I need to talk to Dumbledore.”

“Hermione!” Ginny grabbed onto her arm. “Wasn’t the whole point of this that we’re a team, now?”

“I’ll _tell_ you, Ginny, but I’m not comfortable saying it until I confirm it with Dumbledore.”

“What’s going on here?” George cut in as he and Fred intervened.

“Nothing—” she tried to say.

“Hermione thought of something about You-Know-Who, but she won’t tell us,” Ginny said.

“Ginny! I just want to talk to Dumbledore first, okay? I don’t want to bring it up in case I’m wrong.”

“Why so secretive? Seriously, is it worse than You-Know-Who hiding a you-know-what with a Fidelius Charm?” Ginny asked.

“ _Yes_ , it’s worse, Ginny! Just let me go!”

Ginny’s grip slackened, and Hermione yanked arm out of her grip and ducked out the portrait hole before anyone else could stop her. For the third time that year, she went running up to Dumbledore’s office. “Ginger Newts,” she snapped, gaining entrance.

“Miss Granger, to what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked when he saw her.

“Harry’s a horcrux, isn’t he?”

Dumbledore turned about as white as she’d ever seen him. She would have thought she’d announced she was going to the Dark Side.

“Professor?” she said. His silence was all the proof she needed.

“Hermione—”

“He _is_ , isn’t he?!” she demanded.

“I was going to point out that your friends are behind you.”

Hermione spun around to see Harry taking off his invisibility cloak from himself and Ginny. “She’s right, isn’t she?” Harry said.

“No,” Ginny whimpered. “No! No! She’s wrong! She—she has to be…”

“Harry, I _told_ you I wanted to talk to Dumbledore alone.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now,” he said resignedly.

“How did you even get your invisibility cloak that fast?”

“I’ve been carrying it with me. Sirius said I should after what happened at the Ministry.”

“It was…my idea…” Ginny choked out. “Please tell me this is a sick prank.” No one said anything. “Professor, tell her she’s wrong!”

“Ginny!” Harry said, pulling her to face him. “I think she’s right.”

_“No!”_

“It makes so much sense—”

_“Harry, don’t say that!”_

“Hermione’s got it right, Ginny! I can feel it in my gut.” He turned to Dumbledore. “It’s true, isn’t it, Professor?”

Dumbledore gazed at him with a glimmer of tears in his eyes instead of his usual twinkle. “I am sorry you had to find out this way, Harry, but Hermione is correct. A fragment of Voldemort’s soul is bound to you.”

Ginny let out a scream of rage and fear and pulled out her wand, but Dumbledore waved his hand, not even drawing his own wand, and the next thing they knew, her wand was no longer in her hand, but on his desk. She lunged forward to grab it again, but Harry wrapped his arms around her and held her back. After a minute of fighting, she gave up and cried into his shoulder.

Harry looked up at Dumbledore with a storm of emotions on his face. “So then…in order to defeat Voldemort for good…I have to die?” he asked.

“I did not say that, Harry.”

“You might as well have!” Hermione snapped. “You said we need to destroy the horcruxes to kill him. And you’ve been sitting on this for _how_ long? After all the other times you’ve held back information you shouldn’t have?”

“Do not think I have been idle, Hermione,” Dumbledore suddenly became stern. “I have been searching for a solution for Harry. I had hoped that none of you would have to worry about the problem until I had solved it. It could have avoided all of this anguish.”

“So you _haven_ _’t_ solved it?” she said.

Dumbledore lowered his head a fraction: “No, I have not—though I do continue to search. You should know that there is one crucial difference between Harry and a true horcrux.” Ginny looked up at this, although it was still hard to tell if she fully understood what he was saying. “The soul fragment bound to you, Harry, is a horcrux that Voldemort did not intend to make. Though he began the ritual, it was interrupted. The ritual was left incomplete, and the soul fragment that split off latched onto the only living thing left in your parents’ house.”

“Me,” Harry said.

“Yes, but not in the same way as a true horcrux. I am confident it is possible to remove it from you without killing you.”

“But you haven’t figured it out, though,” Harry said. “And now Voldemort’s back in the open, and we don’t know how long we have to destroy all the horcruxes before he catches on or takes over or something.”

“And you don’t. Know. How.” Ginny hissed in anger. “You were just going to let Harry die!”

“Miss Weasley, I—”

“Save it. How long have you been looking? And you’re gonna be even busier with the war. What are the odds you’re going to figure it out now?”

“Ginny, he’s still the only chance I’ve got,” Harry chided her, pulling her closer.

She shook her head against his chest. “I’m not going to lose you, Harry. There has to be another way. Maybe Bill or…or…Hermione!” she spun to face her other friend.

Hermione blinked in confusion. She was too surprised at seeing Ginny Weasley turn on Albus Dumbledore like this to pay attention. “What?” she said.

“Can you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Get the horcrux out of Harry!”

“What? Ginny, I don’t know the first thing about soul magic!”

Ginny climbed off of Harry and approached her. “Hermione, you’re the most brilliant arithmancer in a hundred years. You said yourself you can do things even You-Know-Who doesn’t think are possible. If anyone in the world can figure this out, it’s you.”

“But that’s different. The unique things I’ve come up with—rearranging molecules, lasers, even a lot of my curses—they’re all based on muggle science. This is Deep Magic.”

“But haven’t some of your papers been based on applying new maths to advanced magic?”

“Some, I suppose.” Hermione was surprised Ginny was that familiar with her work. “Probably my work on Extension Charms more than anything else.”

“Well, do it like that.”

“It’s not that simple, Ginny! I—Look, if I knew exactly how a horcrux was made— _and_ if I spent the next year reading up on…I don’t know, algebraic topology and differential geometry? Then _maybe_ _…_ ” Hmm, if she extrapolated from what little she knew around the outskirts of soul magic like the Patronus Charm, that might actually be the right maths to approach the problem.

“HA!” Ginny pointed at her. “You’re already thinking about it, aren’t you?”

“But it could all be a wild niffler chase, though,” she insisted. “I can’t even guess as to whether it would work. You take Arithmancy, Ginny. You know that sometimes, you do all the maths, and you find out that there’s no solution, or there is one, but it’s not a closed form you can calculate.”

“It’s better than nothing. I’d rather take the chance and give it a try. Wouldn’t you, Harry?”

“Ah—well—obviously yes,” he said, though he still looked pretty shell-shocked.

“There, you see? Hermione, you got Harry through the Triwizard Tournament alive. You got him out of the Ministry alive. You may not believe you can do this, but I do. So will you please try to help Harry one more time?”

Hermione closed her eyes. Even after all this time, she was touched that Ginny had such faith in her. She only wished she could live up to it. But she thought about it: Harry was going to die if Dumbledore could find a way to remove the horcrux from him—a promise that sounded hollow at this point. Could she really say no to doing everything she could to try to keep her best friend safe, even if it might be impossible.

No, she couldn’t.

“Yes, Ginny. Of course I will.”

“Oh, thank you! Thank you, Hermione!” she squealed, throwing her arms around her neck. “I know you can do it. I really do.”

“I can’t do it without help.” She turned back to face Dumbledore, who had been silent through this conversation, but had watched them with interest. “Headmaster,” she said, “if I’m to be any help at all, I’m going to need to see those books that describe how a horcrux is made. I won’t even know where to start without knowing how the ritual works. Are you willing to do that for me?”

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “You must understand, Hermione,” he said, “that I am wary of showing those books to anyone. Horcruxes are not the only dark magic described within, and any of those magics could do great harm in the wrong hands.”

“I do understand the need for secrecy, sir,” Hermione retorted. “We’ve been focusing on that all year. And I’ll understand if you don’t believe I can help, but if you _do_ , it’s no use to keep me in the dark.”

He regarded her carefully and seemed to weigh his words. “I believe as Miss Weasley said: if anyone can help Harry, it is you, Hermione. However, please understand my position as well. Even though you have made your position clear with respect to dark magic, it can be very treacherous even to those with the best of intentions.”

“I’m sure it can, but if you really believe I have a chance at doing this, I need something to work with. Professor Dumbledore, twice this year, I’ve come to you about keeping secrets that, directly or indirectly, harmed others. Harry and I both know Occlumency, now, so there’s little danger in telling us, and if we’re going to beat Voldemort, we need as much information as possible. Now, are you going to make it three times that you make this mistake, or are you going to let us help you?”

Dumbledore steepled his fingers and continued watching her carefully. “I understand that you will need that information, Hermione,” he said, “but I am asking you for two months. Two months until the start of the next term. If you are still planning to join my Alchemy class, you will be returning to Hogwarts next autumn, at least part-time. You may use those two months to study those mathematical subjects you mentioned and to teach Harry and your other friends any spells you see fit. Then, in September, we may begin examining the problem of horcruxes together. I do not wish for you to start down this road alone, and I hope you will accept this compromise.”

Hermione felt chagrined at having chastised him like that when he was merely offering her a different option. She glanced at Harry and Ginny, and when they didn’t seem to hold any objection, she said, “Oh, yes, I think that would be fine, Professor. Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome, Hermione. And I do hope we can find a solution together. Now, if you have no other concerns, I think we will speak again in September.”

“Er…Professor,” Harry said hesitantly, “do I still have to go back to my relatives’ house this summer?”

“I’m afraid so, Harry,” he replied. “At least for the first two weeks. Until you are seventeen, your movements will be too easily Traced, and you will need to have the blood wards at full strength in case of an emergency.”

“I get it, sir,” he said disappointedly, and Hermione started formulating a plan.

The three left Dumbledore’s office in silence, making the long trek back to Gryffindor Tower slowly. “Thanks again, Hermione,” Ginny said after a while.

“Well, I couldn’t just stay out of it,” she said. “You know we’ll have to tell your brothers, right?”

Ginny groaned loudly. None of them wanted to think about how that conversation would go. Ron would rant and rave, and the Twins would take it really hard so soon after losing Lee. But they’d have to tell them just the same, and quickly. As soon as they got back to the Common room, in fact, the other Weasleys noticed their sombre expressions.

“What happened, mate?” Ron said at once. “Is it bad?”

“Not here,” Hermione said. “Can we go to one of your rooms?”

They went up to Harry’s and Ron’s room where, after a little polite, but firm convincing, they got Neville and Dean to step out so they could speak in private.

“Alright, so what’d you three need to go running up to the Headmaster for?” George asked.

Hermione swallowed and said shakily, “Well, we told you all about the horcruxes, but…but there was an extra one that Dumbledore didn’t tell us about.”

“An extra one?” Ron said in confusion. “But why wouldn’t he tell you about that?”

Harry looked the Weasleys in the eyes and said, “Because it’s me.”

“What?”

“NO!”

“You can’t be!”

“No, you’re lying!”

“Or Dumbledore’s lying—”

“Boys,” Hermione cut in before they could get out of hand. “It’s not a lie. He told us the whole thing.”

After much protesting and ranting, they managed to convey the story to the three boys. They were horrified, of course, but they couldn’t really deny it when it was all spelt out for them.

“But what does that mean, then?” Ron asked. “If we have to destroy all the horcruxes to kill You-Know-Who, then does Harry…”

“I have to die,” Harry said.

“Harry, no!” Ginny insisted.

“Unless we can get it out somehow, and Dumbledore doesn’t know how,” he said.

“Harry, don’t talk like that! Hermione’s going to be helping—”

“I might as well admit it, Ginny. Hermione’s brilliant, but there’s still no guarantee it’ll work. If we can’t get the horcrux out of me, I’ll have to die to kill Voldemort…I don’t know, maybe that’s what the prophecy meant all along.”

“I don’t believe that,” Ginny said. “Maybe you do, but I don’t. I’m not giving up on you Harry.”

“Neither am I mate,” Ron said.

“Us neither,” the Twins said in unison, and George added, “Besides, if Hermione’s helping Dumbledore, there’s no way they can fail, right?”

“Will everyone stop saying that?” Hermione snapped. “I’m going to do everything I can for Harry, but I have no idea if I can do _this_. It’s—” She choked a little. “It’s too much pressure if I fail.”

She started to cry, too overwhelmed by everything, but George quickly grabbed her, took her up in his arms, and held her close to him. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “It’s going to be okay, Hermione. No one’s going to blame you if it’s too much for you. We all still have faith in you, no matter what happens. We know you’ll try your best.”

“Th-thanks, George,” she said with a hiccough. “I just hope it’s enough.”

* * *

Hermione felt better after a night’s sleep, albeit a restless one. If she was worried about the future before, it was even worse now. If she was the only person who could save Harry’s life…It was too much pressure, despite her friends’ reassurances. And worse yet, at the moment, she didn’t even know whether her plan of attack was the right one. Right now, all she could do was to take it one step at a time.

She supposed she should be thankful that she was able to pull herself together enough to take her makeup exams on Friday. Her Muggle Studies exam was actually harder than she’d expected, just because the material was so out of date, but she was still very confident in her results. The History exam was also fairly difficult, but it was reportedly graded on an enormous curve because you exceeded expectations just by knowing the title of the textbook in Binns’s class.

The next day would be the train ride home and the first of probably several very unpleasant confrontations with her parents, but before that, there was one thing left to do.

The ritual she had worked out was a bit tricky to set up. She had to carve the runes she needed and charge them in the castle so she wouldn’t be detected, but she had to perform it outside the wards of Hogwarts, exactly on the ley line between the castle and Hogsmeade (or any ley line with rune stones on it would do, but she knew where that one was). She sneaked out of the grounds on Friday evening to do it. She had already used the Mathemagician’s Map, her documentation of the anchor stones, and an astrolabe to determine true east from the Great Tower. When the time came, she didn’t have to go far—just outside the castle gates, where she set up the wooden blocks she’d carved the runes into.

It was perhaps fitting that Hermione had started studying the basics of ritual magic at the same time she’d learnt about the Horcuxes. According to an introductory book she’d found in the Restricted Section, all rituals, however minor, required a sacrifice. Sometimes there were additional provisos, like risking or wagering something else beyond the sacrifice itself, but there was always a sacrifice involved. That had been the real rub. The trigonometry had been easy, but figuring out what the consequences of her actions would be was much more difficult. Fortunately, when she did the maths, she found that what she wanted to do qualified as the most minor of rituals. She only needed to sacrifice her ability to be reachable by owl, and not permanently, but only for a month. Sooner was better than later in that case.

She placed five pieces of wood carved with runes in a circle on the ground (five being the number of points needed to define a conic section) and stood in the middle of it. The runes were in two parts. The first part would cast an Untraceability Charm on the circle. Different from the Unplottability Charm, it was designed to block people from being magically tracked, again mainly by owl. Any wizard who went undercover used one as a matter of course. Otherwise, their enemies could find them just by writing them a letter. However, for a minor, it was more complicated. The Trace overpowered any normal Untraceability Charm, so she had to use runes. The other set of runes was a weak space-distorting spell similar to the one she’d used for her Heart-Stopping Curse. It would correct for minor misalignments to place her magical Trace directly on the ley line.

Once everything was in place, Hermione knelt down, placed the tip of her wand to one of the runes, and chanted _“Non Tractiare”_ three times. She felt a tingle as her location within the circle became Untraceable. She then closed her eyes and chanted _“Tractiare”_ three times. There was a loud _CRACK!_ and a jolt of energy went through her like an electric shock as the charm deactivated. The Trace tried to read her location again, but couldn’t, snapping the slight tendril of magic connecting it to her and permanently dropping her from its monitoring.

Unfortunately, owls wouldn’t be able to find her either for the next lunar cycle until the residual effects wore off, but it was a small price to pay. Once she got home, she would be able to test her handiwork.

* * *

Hermione had been holed up for most of the week, so she hadn’t had the pleasure of running into Draco Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle during her time at the castle. Though they briefly saw each other, they didn’t exchange words. That changed on the Hogwarts Express. The Slytherin Trio, no doubt having waited all week to strike without teachers watching them, tried to corner her and Harry at the back of the train as they were searching for a compartment.

“You! There you are. You’re dead, Potter. You and the mudblood.” Malfoy said.

“‘The mudblood’ has a name, Malfoy,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

“Shut up, Mudblood,” he hissed. “I’m going to make you pay for what you did to my father.”

“Oh, so you’ve finally grown up?” Harry said sarcastically. “You’re not going with ‘My father will hear about this’ anymore? Oh, wait, you can’t, since he landed himself in prison.”

“The dementors have left Azkaban, Potter,” Malfoy said. “Father and the others will be out in no time.”

“Yes, but at least he can’t pretend to be an upstanding citizen anymore,” Hermione said lazily.

“My Father is ten times the wizard either of you will ever be!”

Harry smirked at the trio: “Oh, yeah? Then how come he got his lights knocked out by a sixteen-year-old girl who was bound and gagged?” He tilted his head towards Hermione.

Malfoy’s hand flew to his wand, but both Harry and Hermione had anticipated his move and drew their own wands.

_“Expelliarmus!”_

_“Impedimenta!”_

Malfoy and Goyle were out of the fight, but Crabbe wasn’t bright enough to read the writing on the wall. He threw out a fairly nasty _“Defodio,”_ but Hermione shielded, and Harry hit him with another _Expelliarmus_.

“Any trouble here, Harry?” It was Ginny, and Ron with her, coming out to see the commotion. Hermione looked around and saw other heads poking out of the surrounding compartments, some from the D.A. including, notably, the Greengrass sisters.

“Just taking care of business, Ginny,” Harry said.

“I don’t know what you were thinking Malfoy,” Hermione said. “We already faced down _actual_ Death Eaters, including your father. Do you really think you lot will scare us anymore?”

“You just wait, Mudblood,” the blond ponce hissed at her. “The times are changing, now.”

“Are they?”

“Yes, they are.” Irrationally, he grinned. “When this is over, mudbloods like you won’t be able to carry wands anymore, Granger, and the way things are going, even the Unforgivable Curses might not be illegal forever. How do you think you’ll fare _then?_ ”

“Why you little—” Ginny yelled and lunged forward, but Hermione waved her back.

“Take it easy, Ginny,” she said. She still held her wand out. “Should that day come, Malfoy, I’m confident I’ll be able to defend myself. And not just with cutesy little jinxes.”

“Oh, really? You might know a few tricks, but you couldn’t cast an Unforgivable Curse if your life depended on it.”

Hermione cocked an eyebrow on him. There were enough wands on Malfoy that he couldn’t move freely, so she could approach him. “Is that supposed to be some sort of handicap?” she asked. “You haven’t talked to Dolohov lately, have you? Let me tell you something…” She then leaned close and whispered in his ear. Suddenly, Malfoy paled, and the hateful glare on his face vanished, replaced by a twinge of fear. She turned and walked away with a smirk and a toss of her hair.

“Whoa,” she heard Daphne Greengrass say. “What did she say? Granger, what did you say?”

Hermione smirked again. She’d let them imagine whatever they wanted unless Malfoy told them. But it looked like she’d certainly got to him with her little message.

_“Anyone who resorts to Unforgivable Curses doesn’t have an ounce of creativity.”_

Perhaps the ride home would be a pleasant one after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non Tractiare: reconstructed Latin for “Untraceable”.


	36. Sixth Year, Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Most of the spells are mine. Everything else is JK Rowling’s.

Hermione Granger sat in a chair in her dining room under her parents’ stern gazes as they looked to her for answers. After a silent and uncomfortable ride home from King’s Cross Station, it was time to tell them the full story of how she and Harry had been attacked by Death Eaters a week ago, and she just _knew_ it was going to end badly.

“I’m sorry I was so short with you in my letter that morning,” she told them. “I was safe at Hogwarts. I was in shock and healing. And after that, frankly, I wasn’t ready to come home. I had more work to do for Dumbledore. Important work—not more fighting, obviously, but helping with research and strategy.”

“You told us one of your friends died,” Mum said. “You told us you’d got in mortal peril _again_. You were supposed to be safe. That’s why we agreed for you to study with a tutor in England at all and not move to France.”

“I know, and it should have been safe,” she said. “The Death Eaters set a trap for us—well, for Harry, actually. They infiltrated the Knight Bus. They knew what night we’d be coming home late from our Astronomy exam, and they arranged for an Auror investigation at Hogwarts that night so our escort would be called away. Instead of taking us home, they threw us out at the Ministry, where two Death Eaters were waiting for us.

Her dad sighed heavily. “Why do I have a feeling I’m going to need something stronger than wine for this story?” he said.

“Do we have a spare bottle of olive oil?” she asked. “I can turn it into high-proof vodka.”

Mum and Dad stared at her. “What?” Mum said.

“Sorry. Bad joke.”

“Hermione, will you please tell us—” Mum said.

“They needed Harry to access—something valuable in the Ministry. I can’t tell you the details, but Harry was the only one who could do it. They bound and gagged us and took our wands, except they missed my homemade wand. I used that to escape.”

“How?” Dad asked. “You’re saying there were two killers holding you at…wandpoint.”

“I rearranged the air molecules into nitrous oxide and knocked them out.”

They stared at her again.

“Really,” she insisted.

“You can do that?” Dad said. She nodded. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“Extremely. But it was the only thing I could think of, and it worked. Unfortunately, there were other Death Eaters in the Ministry, and they corralled us into the…the research division, where they wanted us to go…”

She kept talking, explaining in detail what had happened. She was vague about the secrets in the Department of Mysteries, but she didn’t hold back about what she and Harry had done, even the most uncomfortable parts. She faltered, though, when she spoke about Bellatrix. “You know how I was researching your old medical textbooks?” she said. “Well…some of the diseases in there lent themselves really well to curses. I…I hit her with one I call _Commotio Cordis_.”

“ _Commotio Cordis?_ ” Mum said. “You stopped her heart?”

She nodded shakily. “I knew it was a lethal curse. I thought I _had_ killed her. I found out later her partner had known how to revive her but…I tried to kill her…Oh God, I tried to kill somebody!”

Mum quickly grabbed her and put her arms around her before she could hyperventilate. “It’s okay, Hermione,” she said. “You did what you had to do. You said she would have killed you. It was self-defence.”

“I know,” she whimpered. “I know. That’s what I told Dumbledore. But still, I can’t believe I…”

“And this is why we were worried about you, Hermione,” Mum said. “You shouldn’t have to fight for your life like that.”

“I know, but it’s too late for that, Mum. I just wish I could have saved Lee…I got Dolohov back for him, but…well, I’m not proud of what I did to him. It was…kind of over the line.”

Mum and Dad looked at her suspiciously. “Over the line for a murderer? Hermione, what did you do?” Dad asked.

She swallowed uncomfortably and said in a soft voice, _“Epidermolysis Bullosa.”_

Both her parents’ eyes widened. “Isn’t that the one that makes people’s skin peel off?” Dad said. She nodded again. “My God, what made you think of _that?_ ”

“It was in one of the books, and the physiological mechanism is simple enough. I figured out how to do it, pretending I meant it as a shield-breaker. But Lee had just died, and I…I lost my temper. I could have just used the Heart-Stopping Curse again, but I didn’t.”

“You _do_ seem to have that temper,” Mum agreed, “but we understand you must have been distraught. I’m a little worried that you came up with a spell like that in the first place, though. You’re a good person, Hermione, and we don’t want to see this war doing this to you.”

“I know, Mum, and I’m trying to be more deliberate with my spells. It’s just…I’m still learning.”

“Was there anything after that?” Dad said nervously.

She took a deep breath and described the rest of the battle, trembling as she recounted Dumbledore’s duel with Voldemort. Her parents paled as she described the incredible scale of the battle. “I’ve never seen power like that before,” she said. “I don’t know how we could ever beat him short of an army.”

Mum and Dad looked horrified. They seemed to be struck speechless.

“You sure you don’t want that vodka?” she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Hermione, are you being serious?” Mum said.

“Uh huh.”

“Dare I ask how—?”

“It’s a low-level alternative alchemy spell I invented—the same principle as the nitrous oxide thing…” She hesitated. Normally, she wouldn’t push it this far, but it was the best opportunity to test the Trace. “I can show you if you like?”

“…Is it safe?”

“If you know what you’re doing.”

“Fine, I guess we should really see this,” Dad said.

“Thanks, Dad.” She got up and proceeded to the kitchen, pulled out her vinewood wand and cast, “ _Accio_ olive oil.” A bottle of the stuff flew out of the pantry and she reached to catch it. If the Ministry sent her a warning letter about the Summoning Charm, she’d know the ritual failed. Hopefully, they wouldn’t. She then retrieved a snifter and a small bowl from the cupboard. She filled the snifter with a mixture of about one parts oil and two parts water and set it on the dining room table.

It had taken her a while to figure out the best way to create ethanol—for emergency medical purposes, of course. She needed a chemical process that was simple and easy to visualise, and most of the options were too complicated. She switched to her homemade wand and waved it wand in an elaborate figure-eight pattern over the glass. Bubbles formed in the liquid, and the boundary between the oil and water seemed to dissolve. As simple as she’d made it, it was still a complex spell with two steps performed simultaneously. The first fully saturated the carbon atoms in the oil, turning the fatty acid chains into fatty alcohols, releasing free oxygen, and the second broke the fatty alcohols down into ethanol molecules. Much of the water was consumed in the process. The reaction proceeded at the interface until all of the oil was transformed and dissolved.

She held up a finger to wait and cast another spell, this one to purify the liquid. The chemical process produced a small amount of methanol that needed to be removed, and she also needed to remove the residue from the olive oil. The impurities streamed out of the liquid and formed a small puddle in the bowl where they could be safely washed away.

“There you go,” she said, sliding the glass forward. “It should be about fifty or sixty percent. I could make medical grade if I needed to.”

Dad cautiously picked up the glass and sniffed it, but he didn’t drink it. “Hermione, this is _not_ a spell that a sixteen-year-old girl should have on hand,” he said.

She rolled her eyes: “Dad, we learn to make Sleeping Draughts in second year. I think we’re past that.”

“Well…still, we expect you not to be drinking this or giving it to your friends.”

“Yes, Dad. Do you think _I_ _’d_ trust most of my friends with this?”

“Okay, well, this is…very impressive,” Mum said, getting back on track, “and we thank you for being willing to share your story with us, but now that we know what happened, we _really_ need to talk about—”

“About what we’re doing about this summer? And next year?” Hermione said. “I know. But could we please wait until morning to do it?” She wanted to make sure she was in the clear with the Trace. “I really don’t want to get into that discussion this late.”

Mum sighed: “Fine, we’ll talk in the morning. But don’t think you’re getting out of this, young lady.”

“Thanks, Mum.”

* * *

“I can probably guess most of what you’re going to say by now, but go ahead,” Hermione told her parents the next morning. “It’s probably better to get it all out now.”

Her dad gave her a stern look at that and said, “Frankly, Hermione, I don’t see how there’s much to discuss. It’s clearly too dangerous for you to stay in Britain anymore, and the way you always seem to be concerned about us, that’s more reason than ever for all of us to leave. We still have that option to move to France. We don’t have to worry about the Ministry of Magic interfering anymore, I assume? We can easily be out of the country by the end of summer.”

“And we know you’re going to say you don’t want to abandon your friends,” Mum continued, “but we’re your parents, and we have to think of protecting you first. Plus, the Death Eaters are specifically after muggle-borns like you, aren’t they?”

“No, they’re not,” Hermione cut in. “I mean, yes, they are, but it’s not just muggle-borns who are their enemies. Harry’s number one on Voldemort’s hit list, and the Weasleys are all considered blood traitors.”

“That’s not the point,” Mum said.

“No, but you shouldn’t minimise their contribution to the war effort. I think most of my friends are against Voldemort on some level.”

“Fine, but that doesn’t change the danger _you_ _’re_ in. And that’s still leaving aside the fact that we’re worried about what this war will do to you if you stay. Those spells you told us about…Even if you’re not killed or badly injured, look what happened at the Ministry…We didn’t raise you to be a soldier, Hermione. And yes, if you were eighteen and wanted to join the Army and get properly trained, we would—reluctantly—support you, but this isn’t anything like that. This is like…like going up against the mob or something. This isn’t your fight.”

“Honestly, mum? Yes, it _is_ my fight,” Hermione said. “I don’t mean to fight directly. I never intended to fight directly. But I’m working to help Professor Dumbledore against them. And he _does_ need me. I’ve already done critical work for the war for him. And I’m doing it because the Death Eaters aren’t just a mafia. They’re racial oppressors, many of them outright genocidal, and I want to stand again them _because_ I’m on the wrong side of them, not in spite of it. Because in the in culture I was raised in, we do not tolerate that.”

“Not until you’re an adult,” Dad insisted. “We admire your conviction, but we are not going to allow our sixteen-year-old daughter to stay in such a dangerous environment when we have an easy way out.”

“Which is about what I expected you’d say,” Hermione said softly. “And I do appreciate you trying to protect me. Really. But there are a few things you should know—that I think you should know regardless, but especially for this conversation.”

Dad crossed his arms unhappily, but Mum—reluctantly, it seemed—was still ready to hear her out: “Alright, Hermione. You _know_ there’s very little you can say that would change our minds, but we will listen to what you have to say.”

“Thank you—both of you,” she said. “So, the first thing is, for safety, come September, I’ll be able to get my Apparition License, so travel will be much less of a problem. Just…in the context of being here in England, I’d want to take the classes this summer, and I’d like to see about getting our house hooked up to the Floo Network, too. Until then, there’ll be Aurors watching the Knight Bus to make sure it doesn’t get hijacked again, but I wouldn’t even have to take it. I could ask the Weasleys to help me get around.”

Dad scoffed: “That sounds nice on paper, but we’ve heard too many broken promises from the Ministry to trust the magical world in general anymore.”

“I know. I’m just trying to set the record straight. The second thing: you may not realise it, but the average Death Eater isn’t really that well trained. Most of them don’t have formal training above N.E.W.T.-level Defence, and most of them have day jobs, so they can’t dedicate all their time to it. Harry and I actually held our own pretty well for a while considering it was twelve against two. Now, like I said, I don’t plan on fighting if I can help it, but if it comes to it, I’m not as far behind as you might think.”

“That’s not the point,” Mum said. “And even if it were, it’s still two years’ difference.”

“Two years if you’re not a world-class arithmancer,” Hermione corrected. “I can show you what I can do. You know what I did the night before last? I figured out how to remove the Trace.”

“The Trace?”

“The spell that detects if I do magic.” She stood up pulled out her vinewood and red oak wands and waved one of them, levitating the coffee table. “I can do any magic that an adult witch can without getting in trouble. That means now I can show you what I can _really_ do.”

“You mean you’ve been holding back?” Dad said worriedly.

Hermione merely smirked and started casting at top speed: _“Sanctitatis Apparentia. Oculos Rutilans. Spiritus In Coma. Detrude Nanosilex. Dracones Venit—”_

Her parents jumped as a loud thumping reminiscent of the _Tyrannosaurus_ footsteps from _Jurassic Park_ filled the room. It was about the most ominous sound-based charm she could come up with without getting _really_ complicated.

“Hermione…?” Mum said worriedly.

By now, her skin was glowing white, her eyes glowing red, and her hair blowing in a magical wind. And the fourth spell had turned every piece of glass in the room purple, including Dad’s glasses, by dislodging silicon atoms in a manner similar to heavy irradiation. And she was just getting warmed up: _“Magnetis. Non Turabtur Lucem. Awifath. Avifors Multiplex.”_

“Hermione!” Mum cried as the magnetised silverware clanged together, the walls of the room turned into perfect, endlessly reflected mirror surfaces, her parents’ clothes wove themselves into their seats, and a flock of paper birds flew around the room.

 _“Aqua Cogimini. Krystallone. Spectrextendite.”_ The air became desert-dry even as the carpet was covered in frost. All of the purple glass shifted its crystal structure, turning to amethyst with a mighty _crack!_ And the dispersion of light was increased, flooding the room with purple-tinted rainbows.

“Hermione, stop this!” Dad commanded.

_“Finite Incantatem!”_

Most of the effects stopped instantly. The disembodied thumping and the flapping of paper wings fell silent. She cast _“Onaelath”_ to turn the glass clear again and _“Oculus Reparo”_ to fix Dad’s glasses.

“Don’t _do_ that, Hermione!” Dad said. “We enjoy being able to see the magic you’re learning, but…don’t do that. There’s a reason the Ministry has laws about harassing muggles, isn’t there?”

Hermione blushed with embarrassment. She hadn’t really thought of that display as muggle-baiting, but it was a little too close for comfort. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t trying to scare you.” _Much._ “I just wanted to prove a point, and I got carried away. The point is, every one of those spells was one I invented. And I could have easily replaced every single one of them with a spell that was lethal or potentially lethal, also from my own spellbook. Voldemort may be incredibly powerful, but…but dammit, I’m smarter than he is! I figured out how to break the Trace faster and with less information than he had. Rearranging molecules? I doubt he’s ever thought of that or ever would. My Heart-Stopping Curse? He wouldn’t even bother, but it’s a lot easier to cast as a self-defence spell than what he uses, and it’s potentially reversible. I may only be sixteen, but I am _not_ the average student who just took her O.W.L.s.”

“Hermione,” Mum said as she caught her breath. “We know you’re not. You’re a brilliant young woman, and we’re very proud of you. But you are going too far. You’re getting caught up in your magic in a way we never wanted, and you said yourself that you can’t hope to overpower Voldemort.”

“In a direct fight, but that’s not my job. And that wasn’t about fighting him. It was about being able to protect myself long enough to get away. I just hoped I could convince you I could do that, but that’s not the real reason I want to stay. There’s one other thing I need to tell you.”

“What?”

“Harry’s dying.”

“What?” her parents gasped. Of all the things they’d expected her to say, that couldn’t have been one of them.

“Or rather, he’s going to die,” she clarified. “He has a condition—a…a curse, of sorts. I can’t tell you any more because it’s related to Voldemort attacking him as a baby. I probably shouldn’t even tell you that much, but I swear it’s the truth. Harry’s not going to live through the war unless we can find a cure. And I do mean ‘we’. Dumbledore says he believes I have a good chance of being able to help him analyse the curse and find a cure because I have maths techniques no other arithmancer has, not even him.”

“So you want to stay to help Harry with this curse,” Mum said. “Not to help with the war.”

“They’re one and the same, Mum, in a way, but yes, I’m pushing this hard to stay because I want to save Harry. Ginny _begged_ me to help him, and Harry probably would have too if he had his wits about him. And besides that, he’s my best friend. I have to help him.”

“But you helped Harry from France before,” she pointed out.

She shook her head: “Not this time. Dumbledore has the book that describes the curse. He won’t let it out of his office, and with good reason. Too much dark magic to risk getting into the wrong hands. I have to be able to physically visit Hogwarts to work on it.”

Mum and Dad looked at each other for a moment in one of those silent parent conversations. She had a solid argument this time for why she truly _needed_ to stay in Britain. She hoped she’d taken the right direction, building up to it like this. At least they didn’t look _completely_ resistant now.

“ _Hypothetically_ , if we were to allow this, how often would these visits be?” Mum asked.

“Not at all until autumn term,” she said. “I have to study up on the maths first. Then, I’d still have my Arithmancy Master Class with Septima, and I want to take Dumbledore’s Alchemy class, too, so we’re looking at one or two days per week. But once I can Apparate, it won’t be that big of a problem. I’ll hardly be out in public at all.”

“And you swear you’re telling the truth about this curse thing?” Dad said.

“Yes. Harry is going to die if we can’t find a solution for what’s wrong with him,” she said carefully. “And yes, he _does_ need my help. Dumbledore hasn’t come up with anything, and I’m the only person with new techniques to bring to the table. I know that sounds presumptuous, but Dumbledore will vouch for me.”

“But it’s not certain that you could find an answer either.”

“No.” She looked down at the table. “I wish it were, but I can’t be sure until I try it.”

“I see,” he said. “And if we were to say that it’s still not worth the risk?”

She shook her head, trembling, and tried not to cry. “Dad, please don’t do this,” she murmured. She had one more card to play, but she wasn’t sure if she could do it.

“Huh? Don’t do what?” he said.

“Don’t push this any further.”

“What are you talking about, Hermione? If you’re in some kind of trouble—”

“No, Dad, I’m not in trouble. Can’t you…can’t you just leave it there?”

“Not when you’re acting like this! Tell us what’s wrong.”

“Please…please don’t make me choose.”

“Choose? Choose what?” Mum said.

Hermione looked up at her parents, and the mask started to come up again. “Mum, Dad,” she said, “do you remember that the age of majority is _seventeen_ in the magical world, not eighteen? Come the nineteenth of September _this year_ , I’ll be able to walk away. Completely free. Money won’t be a problem. That Saudi prince finally came through. If you tried to press the matter, the Ministry would give me asylum because I’d be a legal adult in their eyes…and…Please don’t make me make that choice,” she said tearfully. “I don’t know if I _can_ make that choice. I know it sounds horrible, and I wouldn’t even _say_ this if weren’t Harry’s life on the line, but it _is_ …I’m sorry.”

Her parents looked horrified. Dad was took shocked to speak, and Mum looked like she’d been slapped in the face. “Hermione…” she said. “Would you really…? How are we supposed to respond to that? Don’t you see that all you’re doing is forcing an impossible choice on _us_?”

“Yes, I know! That’s why I didn’t want to say it. I never wanted to hurt you…but I have to do the right thing as best I can see it. I can’t do anything else.” Not even if it meant running away from home. Not even if it permanently damaged her relationship with her parents—which she might well have already. God, how had it come to this? How had she got from the little girl who just wanted to get into Arithmancy class to here? _Can_ _’t I just lose?_ she thought to herself. _Just this once?_

But it was too late to go back. It had been a long time since she’d seen Dad properly angry with her, but she could see how mad he was now. “ _Well,_ ” he huffed, “it sounds like _you_ _’re_ the one who doesn’t have anything to discuss with _us_. What was the point of this whole conversation, then?”

“Dan, don’t,” Mum chided.

“No, Mum, it’s a fair question,” Hermione said. “I hoped you would accept it when I told you about Harry. I knew you’d never like it, but I wanted to try to reach an understanding, not give an ultimatum. I never wanted it to get this far. I swear I didn’t. But I couldn’t give up without trying everything I could.”

“A bit late for that, isn’t it?” said Dad. “You know, even if you did all that, we could still ground you for the summer, don’t you?”

“Yes, and if you wanted, you could force me to go to Beauxbatons for the first three weeks of autumn term, too. But it…won’t change anything in the end.”

“You can’t stop us from trying, though—”

“Dan, stop it,” Mum hissed.

“Emma, are you hearing what she’s saying?”

“Yes, I’m hearing it, but I don’t want to lose our daughter,” she said. She was crying harder than Hermione now. “I don’t like this any more than you do, our daughter is obviously determined to do this, and she’s right, we can’t legally stop her when the time comes. I don’t want to lose her any more than we have already have.” She took a deep breath and continued, “Hermione, we don’t want to fight you. I wish it hadn’t come to this, but let’s try to come to an agreement now before anyone else does something they’ll regret, okay. If you…if you refuse to respect our wishes to get out of the country, will you please respect our wishes about staying safe any other way you can?”

“Th-th-that…was the general idea, Mum,” she said shakily.

“That means, for a start, we don’t want you taking that bus again, even if the Ministry is watching it.”

“I wasn’t planning to. I know Mr. and Mrs. Weasley have Side-Along Apparition licenses, and I can ask George to get one, two. The Twins are good at it. They can get me around until I can take the test for myself. Or we could drive to London, and I could take the Floo. But…I would still need to take those Apparition Lessons.”

“I think that would be appropriate since you say it’s the safest way to get around. Now, supposing we can come to an agreement about things today, what would be the rest of your plans for the summer?”

“Well, I was planning to put my tutoring on hold and focus mostly on the new maths classes I need to cover, so I won’t need to go out for that. I wanted to help George and Fred set up the shop—but I can limit that to a couple visits,” she added when she saw her parents’ faces. “Make a couple more jewelry pieces, buy and/or make some additional self-defence equipment. I’ve got a few ideas of my own for that, and George and Fred are working on some others.”

“I see,” said Dad curtly. “Hermione, we’re very disappointed that you felt the need to do this. I never thought I’d see the day when our daughter would threaten to run away from home. Frankly, after a stunt like this, we’re putting a lot of faith in you just to believe what you’re saying. You said Dumbledore would vouch for you, and we may write to ask him to do just that.” Hermione didn’t flinch, which she hoped he would take as a good sign. “You’ve almost always been honest with us over the years, though, so I think we’re provisionally willing to accept it.” He glanced at Mum, who nodded. “ _However_ , you _are_ grounded—or pretty close to it. We expect you to talk to us about anything you want to go out for, and if you feel strongly enough to push us like this, you’d _better_ be spending your time here working on your project to help Harry like you said, and doing whatever you need to to keep yourself safe.”

She nodded silently, feeling drained. “I’ll do it,” she said. “Thank you…I love you, and I wish it didn’t have to be this way.”

Mum pulled her into a hug. “So do we,” she said, “but we’ll always love you Hermione, even when you’re being stubborn and reckless and driving us up a wall.”

“Okay, I deserve that,” she admitted. “But…Mum, Dad…before all that stuff, there’s one other thing I think needs to be done first.”

Her parents shot her matching stern looks. “What’s that?” asked Dad.

“Springing Harry from his personal prison.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oculos Rutilans: Latin for “glowing red eyes.”
> 
> Spiritus In Coma: Latin for “wind in hair.”
> 
> Detrude Nanosilex: stylised from the Latin for “dislodge dwarf flint (or silicon).”
> 
> Dracones Venit: Latin for “the dragons come.”
> 
> Magnetis: from the Greek “magnetis lithos” meaning “lodestone.”
> 
> Non Turbatur Lucem: Latin for “not perturbed by light.”
> 
> Awifath: Old English for “weave”.
> 
> Avifors Multiplex: from the Latin for “bird” and “multiple”. Meant to be a multiplied version of the paper bird spell Padma used in the fifth film.
> 
> Aqua Cogimini: Latin for “water, be condensed.”
> 
> Krystallone: Greek for “crystallise.”
> 
> Spectrextendite: Based on the Latin for “spectrum” and “extend”.
> 
> Onaelath: Old English for “bake with fire” (annealing).


	37. Chapter 37

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is a genus-1 topological surface homeomorphic to JK Rowling.
> 
> Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
> 
> Warning: I have taken neither Algebraic Topology nor Differential Geometry classes, although I’ve picked up a few basics from General Relativity and assorted other classes and Wikipedia. Fortunately, the details are not particularly relevant to the plot.

Hermione was worried that the hard part of the operation would be finding a ley line she could access. She knew from Professor Slughorn that one ran along Diagon Alley, which presumably meant from the Leaky Cauldron to Gringotts. However, she’d need to locate the cornerstone of at least one of those buildings and a hidden place along the line running between them to do the ritual.

She also considered a more speculative possibility: that there was a ley line running from the Leaky Cauldron directly to the Ministry building. She spent some time drawing lines on a map of London and measuring angles to convince herself this was plausible. Unfortunately, she didn’t know exactly where the control stone circle in the Ministry was, and any milestones in between must either be buried or on private property. She also looked at the architecture at King’s Cross for clues, with little success, plus the wild card possibility that there was a rune stone hidden in plain sight in Trafalgar Square, but none of those were certain enough to act upon.

Even without those uncertainties, she decided she needed to calculate what would happen if she made a mistake. Rituals tended to have disastrous consequences if they went wrong, after all. Luckily, this being such a minor ritual, the consequences would be similarly minor. If the ritual were performed in the wrong place, the alignment runes would draw too much power and burn out, causing the runic blocks to burst into flames, and the Trace would register a large, though benign magical discharge that would no doubt send the Aurors running. Troublesome, but not dangerous.

But it turned out that the direct approach worked in this case. She convinced her parents to drive her up to the Leaky Cauldron, where she convinced Tom that she was working on an introductory geomancy project (not hard with her reputation) and asked if she could see the cornerstone of the building. Predictably, it was in the back wall of the pub where the walled courtyard leading into the Alley was. That gave her some pause. She could lock the door into the pub for the minute or two it took to do the ritual without suspicion, but she couldn’t control anyone coming in from the Alley who might see them.

But then she remembered. Harry had an invisibility cloak.

* * *

The second problem was that there was still a guard from the Order on Harry’s relatives’ house. This guard would be under an invisibility cloak, she wouldn’t know in advance who it was, and, since she was out of owl contact, she had no way to find out the guard schedule. That meant she would need a plan to take down an unseen guard without being detected—preferably with an invisible or near-invisible spell. She looked through her entire spellbook for a solution. She considered sewing the guard’s invisibility cloak to their robes to pin them, but she wasn’t sure if it work on a magical garment. She didn’t have a Cloak of her own, and she didn’t know the Disillusionment Charm, so hiding herself was out. She’d need a distraction.

She had an idea that she thought might work. Wizard could be sneaky when they wanted to, but they rarely anticipated new forms of sneakiness, and they especially weren’t trained to anticipate spells that didn’t produce light as a major threat, because there weren’t all that many of them that could take down an experienced wizard.

The next morning, Hermione got ready. She straightened her hair and charmed it blond, borrowed her mum’s frilliest dress, and put on a pair of high heels charmed for stability so she wouldn’t look like herself from a distance. She had convinced her parents to drive her to Little Whinging, but not right up to the Dursleys’ house. Instead, they parked at the playground on Magnolia Crescent, several blocks away. She went the rest of the way on foot. This was where there could be trouble. If the guard was Mad-Eye Moody, she would be caught immediately and would have to confess everything. If it was anyone else, and they caught her, she could probably talk her way out, but she suspected they would be too wary for her to get Harry out. After all, they would be watching out for impostors, wouldn’t they? But with anyone but Moody, she thought she had a good chance of getting away with it.

She casually walked down the street trying to keep a different gait than her usual one. She felt the urge to hum the theme from the new _Mission Impossible_ film. When she was still several houses away from the Dursleys’ house, she stopped and pretended to examine a hedgerow. Then, carefully concealed, she raised her wand, laid it across her opposite arm, and threw a lot of power into a new spell of hers: _“Echoikonos.”_

An ultrasonic wave raced down the street and struck the face of Number Four. Any invisible object there would shimmer in the air with magic due to echolocation. It could be detected, and it could be blocked, but since it was different from the _Hominem Revelio_ that any other wizard would use, they probably wouldn’t be prepared for it. And here was the clever part: the shimmer would be emitted from the _surface_ of the detected object. That meant unlike with _Hominem Revelio_ , the person _under_ the invisibility cloak wouldn’t notice anything wrong.

It worked. There was an invisible figure standing idly in the Dursleys’ yard.

The next step was trickier. As far as she could tell, she would have to cast all her spells from outside the property line to avoid tripping the Trace on Harry. There were a lot of unknowns here, but she was going for it. She cast a Supersensory Charm on herself, which would give her enhanced hearing for a limited time. It wouldn’t help if the guard was smart and silenced their shoes, but it could give her an edge. She walked past the house, continuing on her way. She wasn’t challenged. Then, she judged the angle, pointed her wand backwards along her forearm, and created her distraction.

_“Dracones Venit.”_

Throwing a pebble in the other direction or the equivalent wouldn’t fool the guard like in the movies. At least she hoped it wouldn’t. But a repeated, rhythmic thumping that sounded like the footsteps of a _Tyrannosaurus_ coming from the wall of the house underneath Harry’s window? That was worth investigating. All of the spells she had cast so far had been sound-based, so they didn’t produce any visible light, which gave her the advantage.

When she suspected the guard had turned away to investigate the thumping, Hermione spun around and cast _Echoikonos_. There they were. Without hesitating, she snapped off _“Stupefy!”_ She heard the cloaked figure collapse to the ground. Mission accomplished.

She needed to hurry. She didn’t know how long she had before a shift change or something. She cancelled the Supersensory Charm, ran up and pulled the invisibility cloak off the guard. Emmeline Vance. She felt strangely relieved. She’d worry for the country rather a lot if she had outsmarted an Auror so easily. “Sorry, Ms. Vance,” she said and pulled the cloak back over her.

Hermione rang the doorbell, and a tall, thin, horse-faced woman answered it. “May I help you?” she asked.

“Hello, Mrs. Dursley, I’d like to speak to Harry, please.”

“Harry?” Mrs. Dursley scowled. “There’s no ‘Harry’ here.”

Hermione frowned. There was no reason for him to be away from the house. “Are you sure about that, Mrs. Dursley? I’m a friend of his from school.”

The woman paled: “Oh, it’s one of _you_ lot. What do you want him for?”

“To take him on holiday.”

“What? But he’s supposed to stay here for two weeks. The…the protections or something…”

“I’m sure he can come back for one day a week or something, Mrs. Dursley. But I need to do this for his safety. He’s too easy to find with the Ministry’s tracking spell on him.”

“I…don’t think we should be letting just anyone in the house.”

Hermione cocked her head and sighed, drawing her wand: “Do you really think you can stop me, Mrs. Dursley?”

A bluff: she couldn’t cast spells on the property, but Harry’s aunt didn’t know that. Mrs. Dursley backed away in fear and called up the stairs, “Harry, get down here!”

There was a light thump of someone descending the stairs, and Harry appeared. “What is it, Aunt Petunia?” he asked.

“Hello, Harry,” Hermione said brightly.

He looked at her in confusion. “Do I know you—whoa, _Hermione?_ ”

“Yes, Harry.”

“No way!” He drew his wand suspiciously. “You don’t look anything like Hermione.”

She sighed again. “A topological space is defined as a set of elements _X_ and a collection of subsets of _X_ , _tau_ , such that the empty set and _X_ are subsets of _tau_ , any union of members of _tau_ belongs to _tau_ , and—”

“Okay, okay! It’s definitely you,” Harry said, “but why do you look like that?”

“Because I’m in disguise. I’m here to get you out of here.”

“What? But I’m supposed to stay here to charge the wards.”

“Well, you can come back as needed if you want, but I’m going to take you somewhere they can’t find you,” she said.

“How? The Ministry can Trace my movements,” Harry insisted.

Hermione grinned. “Don’t be so sure,” she said. “I figured out how to remove the Trace.”

Harry’s eyes grew to saucer-sized. “What, seriously?”

“Yes. Think about it. You’ll be able to use magic outside of school, and you won’t have to worry about being followed if you go back and forth to…to Sirius’s place.”

Hermione could see the wheels turning in Harry’s head. He twitched his head in his aunt’s direction, but didn’t quite look at her. Hermione was one of the very few people Harry had told about the Dursleys making him sleep in a coat cupboard until he was nearly eleven. On remembering that, she had a sudden urge to use several dental-themed hexes on the woman, but she restrained herself. “So are you in?” she asked.

“Hell yeah! Do it!”

She shook her head. “We have to go to London to do it,” she said. “My parents are waiting for us. And you’ll need your invisibility cloak.”

He nodded and ran up the stairs and back down again faster than she thought ought to be possible. “Bye, Aunt Petunia,” he said. “I’ll be back later…probably.” He ran out the door, leaving a very confused and worried Petunia Dursley in his wake.

Hermione hurried after him, leading him to her parents’ car at the park. “We need to hurry,” she said. “I don’t know how long Ms. Vance will be out.”

“Who?” Harry asked.

“The guard from the Order.”

“Oh…Wait, how’d you get past her?”

“I used sound-based spells to distract her and reveal her location and stunned her from outside the wards.”

“But aren’t the wards supposed to stop all attacks?”

“They aren’t normal wards, though. They’re specifically tied to you and the Dursleys. I didn’t mean _you_ any harm, so they didn’t stop me…Probably.”

“Probably?” Harry and her parents said in unison.

“I was guessing. A lot. But I thought it was worth trying to get you out of that prison.”

“Wow,” Harry said. “Er, thanks, Hermione. I mean, it’s only two weeks, but it’s still really nice of you. So how did you get the Trace off of yourself?”

She grinned at him: “I divided by zero.”

“What?”

“Well, it was more complicated than that. It took a few pages of trigonometry to figure out how the Trace fixes your location, and then, I used some runes and a few incantations to basically force the Trace to return a divide-by-zero error, which overloaded it. Although it does make you unreachable by owls for a month, so you’ll want to stick to your mirrors to talk to people.”

“Whoa…You don’t think we’ll get in trouble for this, do you?”

Hermione laughed. “Harry, you’re the Chosen One, now. The Ministry will let you get away with anything. Besides, we’re only in trouble if we get caught.”

* * *

“Vance was not at the muggle Prime Minister’s residence, my Lord,” Rowle said. “Auror Hestia Jones was there instead. She…got away—but she won’t be holding a wand again anytime soon.” He produced a mangled human arm and laid it down before Voldemort’s feet.

Voldemort raised one scaly eyebrow at Rowle. “I _suppose_ that achieves the goal of having one less wand on Dumbledore’s side, Rowle,” he hissed, “but be thankful I am short of good wands myself. I expect cleaner work in the future.”

“Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord,” Rowle said hurriedly.

“You said Vance would be on guard and would be vulnerable, Severus,” Voldemort enquired. “Can you explain why your information was inaccurate?”

“There was always a chance that Vance would trade shifts, my Lord,” Snape said. “I had thought that, as she was assigned to a double shift, she would be more vulnerable, but the schedules are never entirely certain. As it happened, Vance missed her check-in from Potter’s residence for reasons to which I am not privy.”

“Potter?” Voldemort said with interest. “Was there some incident involving him.”

“I can offer only speculation at this point. However, I will continue to make enquiries.”

“See that you do. What of Dolohov?”

“He is recovering, my Lord, although I admit that my Healing techniques have made little difference. I now have an approximate idea of what the curse did to him, and I project another two weeks before he can return to duty. He is mostly lucid now, if you wish to speak with him.”

“Very good. I will. I need his contacts at Durmstrang. And perhaps with his memory, Rookwood can recreate that curse too.”

* * *

Harry relaxed at the Grangers’ house once their trip was over, idly casting simple charms just to prove to himself he could. He suggested they could visit the Weasleys, too, but she declined: “I’m sort of grounded for almost getting killed. Again.”

Harry eventually wheedled out of the Grangers that Hermione had threatened to run away from home to keep from being sent back to France, which made him very uncomfortable, both for prying and because she’d done it mainly for him. He appreciated the gesture, but he didn’t want to break up her family.

At Hermione’s behest, he had sent Hedwig to the Weasleys with a letter giving a vague but hopefully non-troubling excuse as to why he and Hermione wouldn’t be reachable for the next month. Fortunately, there was a loophole in the ritual. He told them to address any post to “Care of Daniel and Emma Granger”, and Hermione’s parents would ensure it got to him. She also told him to call Sirius on his mirror before the Order started panicking.

“So you need to break the oxygen molecule apart and attach each atom to a nitrogen molecule,” she explained. “If you look at the bond structure of the molecules, you can abstract it to this geometric structure.”

“Wait, how does that work?” Harry asked.

Hermione had decided that since Harry could use magic now, it was time she started teaching him her spells to rearrange atoms. Since there was a nontrivial chance that this was the “power the Dark Lord knows not”, she wanted to get him up to speed quickly. But she’d been working on this project for so long that she was way ahead of him by now.

“I guess it’s easier to follow with crystal structures,” she told him, and she looked around the scattered papers on her desk. “Umm…here. This shows the conversion from atomic structure to geometric patterns.”

Harry couldn’t make heads or tails of half the stuff on Hermione’s desk. A lot of it was new maths seemed to deal with shapes so abstract that he had no idea how you were supposed to do maths _on_ them. Other papers covered everything from new curses and defence implements to something about a diamond necklace for some Saudi prince. However, he _could_ with some effort, follow how she was converting molecular structures to geometric patterns and runes. “So what’s this one for?” he asked.

“This one’s for carbon nanotubes. I’m looking for useful ways I can use them for, you know, weapons and armour and stuff, and comparing them with my basilisk-skin coat…” At that, she trailed off, staring off into space for a minute before she exclaimed, “Eureka!”

“What?”

“I know what to do with my coat.”

Her parents came into the room. “Hermione, what’s going on?” her dad said.

“Mum, Dad, I got it!”

“Got what?” he asked.

“My basilisk-skin coat. It doesn’t _need_ to be bulletproof. I can make a lining out of carbon nanotubes, and _that_ will be bulletproof.”

Mr. and Mrs. Granger looked surprised. “A bulletproof lining?” he said. “You can do that?”

“Well, I might need to enchant it for stiffness, but yes. I thought of it while I was going back over that nanotube knife design with Harry. Nanotubes are ten times stronger than kevlar—or they should be once I optimise the molecular structure. A thin lining should be enough to stop any handgun, and they have incredibly high thermal conduction, so it won’t be too hot, either.”

Harry was lost. “Okay, what are carbon nanotubes again?”

Predictably, Harry got an earful. Hermione showed him a bunch more diagrams of molecular structures and talked about things like lattice vectors and cross-links, a lot of which continued to go over his head, but the gist of it was that if you rolled graphite into microscopic tubes, it became ridiculously strong. Muggle scientists had spent years studying them and were just beginning to understand how to make them, but since Hermione could rearrange atoms, for her, it was Tuesday.

“So would that stop curses, too?” Harry asked. “Like if you wore it under a shirt?”

“Hmm…I doubt it,” she said. “It’s a good idea, but most curses physically strike one’s clothes and still affect their victims, even through thick cloaks. It’d have to be _magically_ resistant to stop them.”

“Oh, right. But didn’t Voldemort conjure a physical shield to stop one of Dumbledore’s curses?”

Hermione’s eyes widened: “You’re right, he did. Maybe if it’s an actual shield held apart from your body, it would work—maybe even against the Unforgivable Curses. And since nanotubes are so strong and light…I’ve got an idea. I’ll need more carbon though—Dad!”

“What?”

“I need charcoal.”

* * *

Hermione never learnt the details of what had happened with Emmeline Vance and Hestia Jones. Harry insisted she wouldn’t take it well, despite the fact that she had accidentally probably saved Emmeline’s life. She _did_ learn about the murder of Amelia Bones and the bridge collapse and the giant attacks in the West Country, however. Those had hit the muggle news (under “muggle-worthy excuses, of course). For her personally, though, breaking Harry was just the start of a frightfully busy summer. She had to get through her algebraic topology _and_ differential geometry textbooks. She probably wouldn’t finish those by September, but thought could by Halloween. Meanwhile, she tried dozens of different molecular structures of carbon nanotubes to figure out which one was strongest. Midway through that, she made a major breakthrough. She discovered she could draw the molecular structures in a computer aided design program and print them on card stock to test them faster and more accurately. Go muggle technology!

She quickly realised that technique would be equally valuable for Archimedes Jewelry and would significantly improve her ability to produce new and nonstandard gem cuts. Her repertoire was expanding significantly in that area. A book on crystallography had taught her about colour centres and other crystal defects to make green, brown, and black diamonds and several desirable types of quartz, often using the same technique she used to turn glass violet. The only things people were asking for frequently that she was still having trouble with were pink diamonds and emeralds.

As for the carbon nanotubes, she was working on a knife that she could keep in a boot or something, like in the movies. Because they were so much stronger and lighter than steel, she wrapped a layer of them around a tungsten core for ballast, resulting in a grind as thin as a razor blade—far thinner than would be possible with a steel blade of that size—and sharpened it to a molecular edge, three times sharper than broken glass. She made a few unremarkable attempts at first, but once she got the kinks worked out, it worked brilliantly. The hardest part was keeping the edge sharp. Even nanotubes wouldn’t hold a molecular edge under heavy use. A few simple runes would take care of that, along with others to protect against fire and acid, the nanotubes’ weaknesses, but the nanotubes were too tough to carve into. After considering a few options, she made superfine threads of gold and magical wove them directly into the nanotube structure, where they would be visible, but almost impossible to erase. She only needed a tiny amount, and the computer-aided drawing program was again a big help.

When she put it all together, she had a beautiful and delicate-looking stiletto, jet black and all of a piece, with the addition of deadly cutting edges to the original medieval design. It was so strong that it went through a steak like a cleaver when she swung it hard enough, but so precise that she could literally split a hair with it. She made its sheath out of nanotubes as well since she didn’t trust anything else to hold it safely.

“I christen thee…the Black Blade of Buckminsterfuller,” she said when she was done.

“I think you might be having a little too much fun with this, Hermione,” Mum said.

“Maybe…”

But Hermione was just getting started. She revived her magical railgun rig to test carbon nanotube bulletproof sheets. For these, she spun the nanometre-sized tubes into still-microscopic threads and wove them into a many-layered fabric, all with computer aided design patterns and runes to guide the magic. The result was a jet-black cloth that was cool to the touch and smoother than the finest silk. Harry’s invisibility cloak was the only fabric she’d ever seen that was finer. She also tested rigid plates that she could use for a lightweight shield. For those, she had to add a reverse backstop in front of the plates to magically stop any ricochets. The mechanics took a bit more work, but she got both the fabric and the plates to the point where they would stop any commonly-used handgun rounds.

And all that work would become embarrassingly moot in October when Lord Cullen recommended banning handguns throughout Britain, but she was proud of herself for working it out.

* * *

In late July, after they could be reached by owl again, the Grangers were invited to join the Weasleys for lunch at the Burrow, something they had not been able to do since the first time Hermione left Hogwarts two years ago. Harry would be there, too, and Hermione was eager when her parents agreed to go.

The Burrow looked much as they remembered it, though a bit more crowded and a bit more sombre. Percy still wasn’t back. Despite the Ministry acknowledging Voldemort’s return and a change of Minister, he was apparently resentful of how he had been dismissed by his family for the past year and he still wasn’t talking to them. Hermione wondered if she ought to have a word with him.

On the other hand, Bill was at home, and Hermione’s friend Fleur from Beauxbatons was with him, and Angelina Johnson was there, too, as Fred reasoned that since Bill and George got to bring their girlfriends, so did he. (Ron still didn’t have a steady girlfriend, despite his on-again, off-again relationship with Parvati Patil.)

Fleur was the first to greet her. “‘Ermione, it is so good to see you,” she said with considerably less of an accent than she’d had in school. “I wanted to tell you zee news, but I couldn’t reach you.”

“Sorry, Fleur. I’ve been out of contact. What’s the news?”

Fleur thrust her left hand in Hermione’s face, showing off a large, glittering ring.

 _“Mon Dieu, vraiment?”_ Hermione said. _“Tu et Guillaume?”_ she looked between the two of them.

Fleur grinned giddily and nodded.

 _“Félicitations!”_ She hugged Fleur, who began babbling in French about how much she loved Bill. Mrs. Weasley, Ginny, and even Angelina didn’t look too happy about it. Veela did tend to grate on humans of the same gender, but fortunately, Fleur and Hermione usually got along well. She thought Fleur and Bill would be good for each other, despite Mrs. Weasley’s reservations.

George cut in next, pulling her away from the excited Fleur. “It’s good to see you, Hermione,” he said, and kissed her.

“Hold up, George,” Fred pulled him back good-naturedly. “You know what the Ministry says; we need to make sure she’s the real Hermione.”

Hermione rolled her eyes: “A differentiable manifold is a locally-Euclidean space in which all pairs of distinct points have separable neighbourhoods and which can be represented by an atlas of linear maps that are continuously differentia— _mmpf!_ ” George cut her off by kissing her again.

“C’mon, Fred, you should know by now that no Death Eater can fake Hermione’s identity.” Most of the Weasleys laughed.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around to help you two set up the shop,” she told them. “I wanted to, but I had to compromise just to not get shipped back to France.”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” George assured her. “The money helped us more than we could have dreamed. Just be sure you’re there for the grand opening.”

“When’s that?”

“Next Saturday. We have to be open before the kids do their school shopping.”

She looked to her parents for confirmation. “I suppose you should go since you’re a partner,” Dad said.

“Great. I’ll be there. Thanks, Dad.”

“Excellent,” said George. “Oh, and we got those Shield Cloaks you suggested done. They’re not super, but they’ll stand up to a Stunner with no trouble.

“That’s good. Can I get you to put the spells on my coat? Dolohov’s curse burned through part of the magic-resistance, and I put a new lining in it that I want protected, too.”

“No problem. And we came up with a new product in honour of Lee. Check it out.”

“George, put that thing away during dinner!” Mrs. Weasley said in an aggravated tone.

The new product turned out to be a tarantula with red and gold stripes sitting in a terrarium shaped like a half-Quidditch pitch with a miniature Quidditch hoop at one end. When Fred tapped the glass, the spider picked up a miniature Quaffle and threw it through the hoop with its front legs.

“We couldn’t quite get the tarantula to make cheeky comments at everyone, so this was the next best thing,” Fred said, “but if you attach two of them together, they’ll play against each other.”

“Wow,” Hermione said. “I…I’m sure Lee would be proud.” Ron, unsurprisingly, gave them a wide berth.

Hermione greeted Ron, Harry, and Ginny as well. Ginny apologised to her for freaking out at the end of last term when they learnt about horcruxes. She was a lot calmer and more determined about it now, although she did want to know what progress Hermione was making towards solving Harry’s problem, to which she replied that she was still studying the arithmantic foundations. This wasn’t going to be a quick fix. She’d even queried Dumbledore (using coded language) about whether she could stop Harry’s heart with her _Commotio Cordis_ spell and restart it to get rid of the horcrux, but had told her in no uncertain terms that it would not work. To destroy a horcrux, the vessel had to be destroyed beyond repair, and for a living horcrux, that would mean brain death.

But she tried not to dwell on such morbid thoughts. They ate outside, owing to the size of the group. Mrs. Weasley had prepared an excellent feast, as usual, and when they sat down to eat, everyone ate in silence for a little while, savouring the food. After a while, George asked her, “So how did you do on your O.W.L.s? Straight O’s, I assume?”

“Oh, no, no. Sorry, George, but I’m too practical for that.” She shot Bill a grin. He was the only one at the table who had scored higher than she did. “I got Seven O’s and three E’s.”

“Three E’s?” Bill said. “What were they in?”

“Herbology, Magical Creatures, and Muggle Studies.”

The Weasleys all stopped. “Muggle Studies?” George said. “But you’re muggle-born. How could you get an E in Muggle Studies even without the class?”

“Because it was massively out of date. I’m sure Mum and Dad could have aced it, but I’m not familiar enough with what life was like in their generation. And of course, for Herbology and Magical Creatures, I missed the practical parts of the classes, but I’m planning on dropping those classes anyway.”

Emma coughed. “You are?” she said. “That’s news to us. I hope it’s not just because you didn’t do as well in them.”

“No, Mum, it’s not because I only got E’s on my O.W.L.s. Ernest Rutherford once said all science is either physics or stamp collecting, and I’m a physicist. They just don’t play to my strengths, and I’m not planning to be an Auror or a Healer, so I don’t need them.”

“You have to drop some classes for N.E.W.T.s, Mrs. Granger,” Bill spoke up. “I only did seven, and I don’t know anyone who did more than eight.”

“Well, I suppose so,” she replied, “but we weren’t sure if it would be the same with Hermione’s tutoring program.”

“What? You’re not coming back to Hogwarts?” asked Ginny.

“No, not full time, sorry,” Hermione said.

“We felt that Hermione would be safer sticking with Professor Slughorn,” said Dan. “It was part of our compromise not to send her back to Beauxbatons.”

“But Hogwarts is the safest place in Britain,” Ginny said.

“People keep saying that, but can you really believe that after—excuse me, but after the number of near-death experiences you’ve all had there?” Emma asked.

Mrs. Weasley paled noticeably, and Mr. Weasley leaned over and patted her hand. “It’s okay, Molly,” he said softly. “Dumbledore and the Ministry actually have it together now. They won’t slack off like they did before. We do understand your concerns, Mr. and Mrs. Granger, but circumstances _will_ be quite different this year.”

“I’m not really unhappy with the arrangement,” Hermione said. “I’ll still be visiting. I’m going to take Professor Dumbledore’s Alchemy class, and I’ll be keeping up with my mastery with Septima. Honestly, though, I prefer the mobility of being in private tutoring.”

“Can you be a part-time student?” asked Harry.

“In the strict sense of being an enrolled student, no. I checked with Dumbledore. As a practical matter, other students go in part time to do a mastery or something similar, like I’m doing. Or homeschooled students will come in if they want to take an advanced class their tutor can’t teach, such as Alchemy. It’s registered as an independent study or tutoring program, even if they’re sitting with the rest of the class. Anyway, with my schedule, I can join you for lunch on Saturdays.”

“Oh, well, at least we’ll have that,” Ginny said. “What about you, Harry? How did you do?”

“Pretty well,” he said. “O’s in Defence and Potions, E’s in everything else I care about.”

“Potions?” Fred said in surprise. “Slughorn _must_ be good, then. Wish I could see the look on Snape’s face.”

Harry smiled. He had indeed passed all the classes he needed for the Auror track, much to his own surprise. Snape only took O-students in his N.E.W.T. class. He’d definitely flip when Harry showed up.

George, of course, was happy that Hermione would still be close at hand outside of Hogwarts. “It’ll be good to be able to call you anytime, not just on Hogsmeade weekends,” he told her. “Can you do all your N.E.W.T.s that way, though?” he asked with concern. “Slughorn can’t be qualified in everything.”

“I’m still working out the details. I’m dropping Astronomy and History, too, but I’m taking the rest. I _have_ to take Potions, or Professor Slughorn will be disappointed, and Transfiguration is required for Alchemy. He’s qualified in both of those.”

“Slughorn knows Transfiguration?”

“Yes, he’s really good at it. He claims he even turned himself into an armchair to hide from Death Eaters. Then, half the Order is qualified in Defence.”

“I’ll be helping you with that, Hermione,” Mrs. Weasley cut in.

“I don’t want to impose, Mrs. Weasley. I’m sure Remus would—”

“Of course he will, dear, but I insist. After the Ministry, I told Fred and George I’d be giving them a few lessons whether they like it or not.”

George leaned close to Hermione and muttered, “Lee dying really freaked Mum out. She’s giving everyone lessons now.”

“I didn’t know you were qualified as a teacher, Mrs. Weasley,” said Emma.

Mrs. Weasley smiled and nodded. “Yes, I tutored Defence and Potions, Mrs. Granger. It was quite a while ago—just for a few years after I left Hogwarts—before I had more babies than hands. I never went for a Hogwarts job, though. Professor Slughorn was still there, and I didn’t fancy the mortality rate for the Defence post.”

“Well, thank you, Mrs. Weasley,” Hermione said. “So that’s Defence, and most people who are qualified in Defence are also qualified in Charms. Charms is an Arithmancer’s bread and butter, so I’ll need that. I’m just a little worried about Ancient Runes.”

“I’ll teach you Runes, Hermione,” Bill said.

“You will?” she said excitedly.

Dan was a bit more sceptical: “You’re qualified?” He _did_ look pretty young.

“I’m a Cursebreaker, Mr. Granger. That requires a mastery in Runes.”

“Will you be alright with your job, though, Bill?” Mrs. Weasley asked him.

“Oh, that’ll be fine, Mum. Since I’m in Britain for the duration, there’s not that much for me to do at the bank.”

“Thank you, Bill,” Hermione said. “I really appreciate that.”

It was good to have everything settled, but Merlin, her education was going to be complicated this year. She’d be taking two classes with Professor Slughorn, two with Remus (with Mrs. Weasley’s help), one with Bill, one with Dumbledore, and one with Septima, and in at least three different places.

“I’m a little surprised you _are_ going back, Harry,” Emma said. Harry hadn’t been entirely certain when last they spoke, but he’d been leaning that way all summer.

“I really do like Hogwarts, Mrs. Granger,” he said. “And Sirius wants me to go back. He says I’ll be safer sticking close to Dumbledore now that they’re getting serious about security.” And he’d still be with Ginny, although he didn’t say it out loud.

Unfortunately, things weren’t as carefree at the dinner table as they were two and three years ago. Harry’s past year had been almost unmitigatedly bad, and even for the others, talk didn’t stray far from the war after that. Even Mr. Weasley’s incessant questions about muggle life focused on how muggles fought wars and defended themselves from attacks. The Grangers explained about guns (his ignorance of the issue made them dearly hope he never came in contact with either end of one), but they didn’t have the heart to tell him about nuclear weapons.

The various attacks that had happened that summer were discussed. Amelia Bones, the head of the DMLE and probably the most solid candidate to replace Fudge, had been murdered at the start of the summer, something the Weasleys placed squarely on Fudge’s shoulders for his incompetence, which forced them to replace Fudge with a sketchier Auror named Scrimgeour. Hestia Jones, Auror and Order member, was crippled by losing her wand arm. And old Mr. Ollivander had been kidnapped right out of his shop, presumably as a strategic asset. A lot of his stock had been stolen, too, and his family had moved to Hogsmeade, only coming back to sell wands to the new first years under heavy Auror guard. In other words, they said, things were starting to get bad, like last time.

After supper, the Grangers needed to start driving home soon, but before they left, Dan wanted to squeeze in the obligatory father-daughter’s boyfriend talk with George. Hermione and Emma hadn’t shared _all_ of their girl talk with him, but he could see that his daughter and George were very close, and he couldn’t very well pass it up. He dropped enough hints during lunch that Mr. Weasley saw what he was doing and was eager to cooperate.

“So I need to help clean up here,” he said with a wink. “George, why don’t you show Mr. Granger my collection of muggle gadgets in the shed? Maybe he can help organise them.”

George gave his father a funny look, but he could tell he was holding firm, so he went along. Hermione shot her father a warning look. She had anticipated this and told him to be nice. George had, after all, rushed to her side to save her from murderous thugs and lost his best friend in the process, so he couldn’t be that bad.

Dan found that Mr. Weasley’s favourite items to collect seemed to be electrical appliances and gadgets, which he seemed to understand far less than the head of the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts office ought to. None of them were really dangerous by themselves because the Burrow didn’t have electricity, but Dan did feel the need to point out several that should definitely _not_ be hooked up to electricity because they were in no condition to be used safely. Once that was done, he could get to the real discussion.

“So, George,” he said, “what are your intentions towards my daughter?”

“Er…” George quickly considered his options that wouldn’t make either Dan or Hermione mad at him. “Well, Mr. Granger, I…care deeply for Hermione and I want to stay with her for as long as she’ll have me…And I don’t think I can say more than that because I don’t think _anyone_ can tell her what to do at this point.”

“Ah,” he replied. “Unfortunately, I think you’re right. Heaven knows Emma and I can’t control her anymore. But I’m a dentist with a teenage daughter. I’ve been looking forward to making this speech for _years_. You see, this is the part where I’m supposed to threaten you with a root canal without anaesthesia if you hurt my baby girl, but honestly—and don’t repeat this to either of them—Hermione scares me more than Emma and _her_ father put together ever did. I’m not sure myself what she’s capable of anymore.”

“Heh—” George smiled uneasily. Fred had been teasing him for a year and a half that he was in over his head with Hermione, but he was starting to think it might be true.

“So you’ve noticed it too.” Dan flashed him an evil grin. “No father enjoys seeing his little girl grow up like this, but I think Hermione is sensible enough to handle a relationship with a boy. Emma certainly thinks so. Just remember, George: I’m pretty sure my daughter has invented a spell that can _do_ a root canal by now…and she got that from _me_.”

Yep, he was doomed.

* * *

During the summer, Apparition was a flexible independent study course taught by a Ministry instructor. Most students, even though it wasn’t required, took the course at Hogwarts in their sixth year where the twelve lessons were normally done in twelve weeks. Hermione wanted to pass the Apparition test as soon as possible after her birthday, so she arranged to do it in six weeks.

The Ministry instructor, Wilkie Twycross, was a small, unassuming man with wispy, transparent hair. He was also a pretty lousy teacher. Oh, sure, the official Ministry course material had serious problems too, but while Mr. Twycross was very gifted at Apparition and very enthusiastic, he couldn’t seem to explain it much better than parroting the guidelines.

_“The most important things to remember when Apparating are the three D’s!” said Twycross. “Destination, Determination, Deliberation!”_

_“Step one: Fix your mind firmly upon the desired_ destination _._ _”_

 _“Step two: focus your_ determination _to occupy the visualised space! Let your yearning to enter it flood from your mind to every particle of your body!_ _”_

 _“Step three: Turn on the spot, feeling your way into nothingness, moving with_ deliberation _!_ _”_

When Hermione tried it, nothing happened. It normally took a while to get any results, Mr. Twycross said, but she suspected it was not least because he wasn’t really explaining how to do it besides repeating the three D’s and making offhand comments, not really explaining how to do the actual spell. Plus, “Destination, Determination, Deliberation” was a terrible mnemonic—too many syllables and too easy to get mixed up.

The Ministry-issued pamphlet, _Common Apparition Mistakes and How to Avoid Them_ , was more informative despite adhering to the three D’s paradigm. A book on magical transportation from Flourish and Blotts was even better.

If you lacked “destination”, she learnt, you could wind up anywhere. In other words, if you were distracted and thinking of some other place than your intended destination, you could wind up there instead, or even halfway between them. If you lacked “determination”, that is, if you did not “visualise” (though it was more feeling than seeing) yourself at your destination sufficiently well, you could splinch yourself—leaving body parts behind. This wasn’t as disastrous as it sounded, but it was still very unpleasant, and it could have severe complications for something as simple as someone grabbing your arm when you Apparated. And if you lacked “deliberation”, you’d fall flat on your face.

The “turning on the spot” part was, in a sense, the wand motion for Apparition, but it was described in non-standard terms. “Deliberation” wasn’t actually that bad a name for it. It required a steady pace. If you rushed it and turned too fast, or if you hesitated and turned too slowly, the spell would fail. Fortunately, this failure mode usually meant only that nothing would happen rather than winding up in pieces.

The way the book described the spell sounded an awful lot like the muggle understanding of wormholes, although wormholes as understood by general relatively couldn’t actually transport anything. They would collapse the instant any particle tried to pass through. She had a feeling that would be important.

By her second lesson, Hermione had a list of questions for Mr. Twycross. She resisted the urge to open with why it was the three D’s and not something easier to remember like the three P’s for “Place, Person, Pacing”, or the three T’s for “Target, Totality, Timing”, or even ABC for “Aim, Body, Caution”—none of which were particularly good, but all of which would have been better than the three D’s. Instead, she had more pressing concerns.

“So, Mr. Twycross, when you Apparate, what stops you from appearing where another solid object already is? Like a wall—well, I guess if you visualise your destination, you’d know there’s a wall there—but what if a person is standing there—or if you Apparate to a wood and land where a tree is?” That was her most worrying concern. In _The Stars My Destination,_ the one muggle story she knew where a science fiction version of Apparition was used, such a collision resulted in an explosive reaction of the intersecting atoms. Since the Ministry literature didn’t mention it, she assumed it wasn’t a serious issue.

“What?” Twycross said. He looked momentarily stunned to be asked such an advanced question, but he soon collected himself. “Such collisions are rare, Miss Granger, and they are not particularly dangerous. In Apparition, you don’t merely appear in place, you see. When you examine the magic very carefully, you will find your form expands from a particular point. But that point cannot be inside a solid object—or in water, for that matter. There is too much interference from the matter of the _destination_ for your magic to place you there. Instead, it will bounce you to the nearest spot where there is enough space to appear.”

Well, that was one problem solved, and it lent credence to her wormhole theory. It also explained the cracking sound of Apparition; it was simple displacement of air. She wondered if that still applied if you deliberately tried to Apparate a thousand feet underground or something, but she didn’t think anyone would be crazy enough to try it. “What about the problem of relative motion at different latitudes?” she asked.

“Excuse me? What does that mean?” Twycross responded.

“I mean if your destination is moving relative to yourself. Different parts of the Earth rotate at different speeds, Mr. Twycross. “Even Apparating from here to Inverness, which I don’t think is a great strain on most wizards, would be…” She thought for a minute. She wasn’t certain what the latitude of Inverness was, so she had to estimate. “…maybe eighty to a hundred miles an hour difference.”

“Would it really?” he said in surprise. “I had no idea. Obviously if you visualise your destination properly, it never causes any problems. The magic takes care of it.”

That did make sense, although she had to wonder if the relative velocity problem was why Apparition over long distances was so difficult. The curvature of the Earth meant there was a problem with longitude, too. Then, there was the more general problem: “Does that apply to all relative motion? What if you were Apparating somewhere that was moving relative to the ground—like on and off of a moving train?”

“Aha! _Off_ of a moving train is no problem,” Twycross said. “You need only have your _destination_ fixed firmly in mind, and you will land there firmly on your feet. _Onto_ a moving train, however, is much more difficult and is _not_ recommended, even for experts. For you would need to know both where the train is and how fast it is moving, not to mention the obvious secrecy concerns. You are much more likely to miss it entirely, or to be thrown from it when you arrive.”

“Of course, Mr. Twycross.” She’d also wondered about Apparating out of a fall from a great height, but that had other issues, and a Hover Charm or _Arresto Momentum_ would save you much more reliably, so she let it go. “So you can’t normally Apparate to a place you haven’t been before, but can you do it if you have line of sight and/or know exactly where it is in relation to yourself?”

“You’ve certainly thought a lot about this, Miss Granger. Yes, if you have line of sight, and it’s close enough to see clearly, you certainly can. It’s just a matter of visualisation. If you only know the relative position, it’s much more difficult, but possible for experts.”

“I see. And do you have to be standing to Apparate? I know you’re supposed to turn on the spot, but it seems like much more of a mental exercise than with most spells.”

“Not as such. Just as any spell can be performed without incantation or wand motions with sufficient mental effort, so can Apparition. But a beginner like yourself should be very cautious about pushing yourself. For now, just turn on the spot, as I have told you, with _deliberation!_ ”

Hermione tried it again, but she only succeeded in spinning around and losing her balance, nearly tripping over her own feet. She was sure she was missing something here. The literature and Mr. Twycross kept saying to “turn on the spot”, but she had seen both wizards and elves Apparate, and they didn’t really turn—or they only began to turn before they vanished. There was a sort of twisting motion, or a vague sense of movement around them, but most experienced wizards seemed to do it almost standing still.

She focused harder, trying to figure out her problem. The “determination” part was the most mentally taxing part of Apparition—and the most disastrous if you got it wrong. You had to _feel_ your whole body and visualise picking it up whole, after a fashion, and setting it down in another place. It was a complicated spell, though to most wizards, it seemed to be as natural as driving. But the “deliberation” part was the hardest to wrap her mind around. The literature never came out and said it, but it seemed like “turning on the spot” wasn’t quite right, and wizards _knew_ it wasn’t quite right. It was just that they lacked the words to describe it adequately.

But after pondering the issue, she thought that to someone well-versed in both science fiction and advanced mathematics, “turning on the spot” could have another meaning: turning through the fourth dimension. Turning in that way wouldn’t look like motion at all, merely like vanishing into thin air—or perhaps like collapsing down to a point. That fit her wormhole theory, too, and it made sense of the “picking up” and “setting down” notion, since it was possible to pick up and set down objects through the fourth dimension without traversing the intervening space. And with wormholes being the fickle creations they were, it would certainly be important to focus carefully to ensure that your whole body got through it without being cut off in the middle. She had no proof; Apparition was so old and the requisite maths so new that she doubted anyone had done a good Arithmantic analysis of it (maybe something for her list), but it made sense.

She hoped her new perspective would help her. Hermione focused on the three D’s, but with a 4-D perspective this time. It was, in retrospect, doing the D’s out of order—the destination last—but it made more intuitive sense. She felt out her body, which, being the most important thing, seemed naturally the thing to do first. Then, she focused on turning herself through a four-dimensional space. This was of course impossible to fully visualise, but she imagined it as a sort of inner space projected onto the real universe. And then, she imagined herself pulled through that space through a wormhole to land inside the hoop. She began to swing her wand—

And in a blink, the world shifted around her with a loud crack. She’d barely started, and she was suddenly inside the hoop. She turned around and saw the spot where she had started from empty. Excited, she wiggled her fingers and toes and patted herself down. All body parts? Clothes? Hair? Yes, she’d done it!

“Aha! Splendid, Miss Granger!” said Mr. Twycross. “That was perfect on your first successful attempt! Barely even a spin. I think you may be a natural!”

“Thank you, Mr. Twycross,” she said breathlessly. “But I think muggles have thought about this a lot more than you think.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Echoikonos: based on the Greek for “sound image”.


	38. Chapter 38

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Iä! Iä! Shub-Niggurath! Iä! Iä! JK Rowling.
> 
> The Colors of Infinity is available on YouTube, and despite being rather dated by now, I do recommend it. Put yourself in the shoes of someone who has only seen early 1990s computer graphics and imagine how amazing it was. I saw it as a child around the same time Hermione did, and it inspired a lifelong interest in fractals.

“Wow, you managed a perfect Apparition in your second lesson?” George said. “Nobody ever pulls that off.”

“Well, Percy did it in his first lesson, but he’s not human,” Fred added.

“Had a couple splinchings in the first lesson in our year,” George continued, “but no one got it right till week four.”

“I think a lot of it was luck, honestly,” Hermione told them. “I’m a long way from being able to do it at speed, and I still managed to splinch myself once.” She shivered at the thought. She’d nearly fainted when she shifted her weight to one foot and left the other one behind. It hadn’t hurt at much as she’d expected. It stung badly, but carving those words into her hand had been worse. And it had been easy to fix. The stump was…distorted—as if it had been pinched off by the wormhole—so it wasn’t gushing blood. The fix had been to simply bring the foot near the stump and cast a spell to un-distort the space, and they connected back together flawlessly with a strange puff of purple smoke. (It was only splinching on the head and torso, which was much rarer, that was really dangerous.)

“Happens to everyone,” George assured her. “I’m sure you’ll ace the test. So what do you think of the shop?”

Hermione had come to Ninety-Three Diagon Alley early on the day of the grand opening of Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, where the three of them stood behind a ribbon with a giant pair of scissors (her idea). She took another look at the shop; it was probably the most colourful store she’d ever seen. The rest of the shops in the Alley were dull and covered with wanted posters and Ministry safety guides, but WWW seemed to have enough colour for all of them. Over the door, an enormous, ventriloquist-dummy-style figure of a Weasley Twin kept tipping his hat, making a rabbit appear and disappear under it. (That was a prank in itself, since only muggle-borns would understand it.) They’d been lucky enough to get a corner lot, and they were taking advantage of it. The left-hand window was filled with all manner of flashing and noise-making products, while the right-hand window was covered with an enormous poster mocking the Ministry ones, advertising something called U-No-Poo.

“I think selling an anti-diarrhoeal potion as a prank product is ridiculous,” she deadpanned. Not to mention that they’d bumped themselves up a few spots on Voldemort’s hit list.

“Party-pooper,” said Fred.

“Don’t even go there, Fred. The shop looks brilliant. No one’s going to miss it; that’s for sure. I think you can see it from space.”

A crowd had gathered in front of them. Many of the older witches and wizards were gawking at the shop while those who knew the Weasley Twins were grinning, and the younger children gazed in wide-eyed wonder.

A clock somewhere chimed nine o’clock, and the boys sprang into action. “Welcome, welcome, one and all to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes!” George and Fred said in unison.

“The newest and best place to go for pranks, jokes, gags, and general mayhem for witches and wizards of all ages,” Fred continued.

“Exclusive home of the Skiving Snackbox, the Extendable Ear, and Weasleys’ Wildfire Whiz-Bangs,” George said.

“Licensed seller of Wandless Potions Kits and Self-Spellcasting Runes,” Hermione added. Since they were her inventions (the runes with help from Ron), it was only natural that they added them to their product line.

“ _And_ debuting new this season…” George said. “The Pygmy Puff!” He made a show of using sleight of hand to make a pink Pygmy Puff appear from under a handkerchief, making all the young girls in the audience say, “Awww.”

“And for the wizard of action, the Shield Cloak!” Fred swung a grey cloak with a shield design on it over his magenta robes. “Hermione?”

Hermione pointed her wand at him. _“Stupefy!”_ The spell splashed off the cloak with a red flash, and the crowd applauded.

“Guaranteed to block ten Stunners or your money back.”

“Restrictions apply. Results may vary,” Hermione quipped. George laughed and ruffled her hair.

“And now,” Fred announced, “witches and wizards, children of all ages, we declare Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes…” The three of them cut the ribbon with the giant scissors. _“OPEN!”_

The crowd cheered and surged forward, pushing the trio into the shop. For the next several hours, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes was barely-controlled chaos and witches as wizards from the ages of five to twenty-five (if not older) bought all manner of prank items. They sold what Hermione considered to be a worrying amount of mild love potions—mostly to the target demographic of teenage girls, which surprised her. Quite a few of the parents were interested in the Shield Cloaks, as was a Ministry official who bemoaned the incompetence of his coworkers at casting Shield Charms. Several young muggle-born students came up to her and asked if their parents could use the Wandless Potions Kits. She was pleased to see other muggle parents showing such an interest in their children’s lives. And of course, fireworks were set off either accidentally or deliberately approximately once every seventeen minutes.

Late in the morning, the rest of the Weasleys clan arrived: Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Bill, Ron, and Ginny, plus Harry. Hagrid was escorting them, making the group look twice as large as it was. All of them had promised to visit on opening day while they did their school shopping.

“What were you thinking?” Mrs. Weasley chided when she reached them. “U-No-Poo? You’ll be murdered in your beds!”

“Nah,” Fred replied with a grin, “we got Bill to help with the wards. We’ll be fine.” Ron and Ginny laughed as their mother turned around to berate Bill.

“So, kids, what do you think of the shop?” George asked them.

“Not sure,” Harry replied. “I saw the colours, and I thought I might’ve had a seizure.”

The Twins laughed and started showing them around. The rest of the Weasley family wasn’t as surprised as they might have been about all the new products they’d developed since they’d spent a month at Grimmauld Place planning and developing before they leased the building, but they were still surprised at the sheer volume of wares they were peddling. Ron was grabbing a suspicious quantity of Decoy Detonators, and Harry was seriously considering buying a Shield Cloak. Ginny had already adopted a Pygmy Puff, but she was still interested in the Patented Daydream Charms.

“Fred and George never let me try the finished product,” she told Hermione. “Said I wasn’t old enough.”

“Well, they can be a little…” Hermione searched for the word. “Intense? Teenage daydreams aren’t always—you know, appropriate viewing material.”

Ginny didn’t exactly know the phrase, but she got the gist. “Speaking from experience, are you?” she asked, wagging her eyebrows.

Hermione blushed. “I helped test them. They sent me a couple finished ones this summer. Ask them if they’ll let you buy a Quidditch World Cup Fantasy. That one’s fun and should be pretty clean.”

Ginny stared: “I thought you didn’t like Quidditch.”

“No, I don’t like flying on a broom with minimal safety features, but a daydream is fine. Actually, it was the most fun I’ve ever had flying.” She handed Ginny one of the charms. “I’m trying to figure out if there a reliable way to apply muggle film ratings to them so we can sell ones like this to the younger kids.”

“Film ratings?”

Hermione explained the rating system to her. Ginny thought it was a great idea once she understood. They’d just come away from the Daydream Charm display when Harry and Ron grabbed her. “Hermione, there you are,” Harry said softly. “We need to talk to you.”

Hermione quickly glanced around to make sure the shop was under control and led them back to the storage room. “What’s going on, Harry?” she asked.

“I think Malfoy’s up to something,” he said.

She frowned: “What do you mean?”

“We ran into him and Mrs. Malfoy in Madam Malkins,” Harry explained. “He was a real git there.”

“So was his mum,” Ron added.

“Yeah, but later, we saw him walk by alone, and we didn’t think Mrs. Malfoy would let him wander off without a good reason, so we gave Mr. and Mrs. Weasley the slip at the apothecary and followed him. He went to Borgin and Burkes—you know, that seedy shop in Knockturn Alley?”

“You didn’t go in, did you?” Hermione said worriedly.

“No, we used the Extendable Ears,” Harry assured her. “He asked Borgin about fixing something and told him to hold ‘the other one’ for him.”

“What was it?”

“We don’t know,” Ginny said. “We couldn’t see.”

“He threatened to send someone named Greyback after him to make him keep quiet, though—including keeping quiet to Malfoy’s mum,” Ron added.

“Who’s Greyback?” Hermione asked.

“He’s a werewolf,” Harry said darkly. “The one who bit Remus. He told me about him. He’s a really bad guy.”

“He threatened Borgin with a werewolf?” Hermione whispered in horror.

“That’s what it sounded like,” Harry said. “And that’s not all: I think Malfoy’s a Death Eater.”

“A Death Eater? Why?”

“He wouldn’t let Madam Malkin see his left arm. And later, he showed Borgin something we couldn’t see, and it scared him just as bad as Greyback did.”

“That’s not much proof,” she reasoned. “Malfoy’s only sixteen. Would Voldemort make him a Death Eater already?” Hermione asked.

“No way!” Ron insisted. “Malfoy’s too useless.”

“If Voldemort thought he was useful, he probably would,” Harry countered. “It could happen.”

Hermione considered this. Harry seemed to have more insight into Voldemort’s twisted mind than most people. She tried not to think that it might be the horcrux’s influence. And Draco Malfoy was the richest and most prominent child of a known Death Eater around, so if any student was going to become one, it would be him, but that didn’t tell her anything about what the was doing. “That’s not much to go on,” she told him. “And you don’t have any proof.”

“I know,” he said uncomfortably. “I wish I knew what he was asking Borgin to hold for him.”

“What he’s planning would be more important, I think,” she suggested. “If he’s planning anything at all.”

“Revenge, I figure,” Harry said.

“On whom?”

“On us. You and me. His dad’s in Azkaban because of us, right?”

“I suppose so,” she said. A slight tremor went through her. “But with no proof, I don’t see how there’s anything we can do. Probably just tell your suspicions to Dumbledore.”

“I will, but there’s something bigger going on. I know it.”

“All we can do is be careful, Harry,” Hermione said. “Come on, I need to get back out there.”

She didn’t think the rest of the morning would cause any further trouble but she received her biggest shock of the day an hour later when a wild-eyed man stumbled into the shop, and Fred took one look at him and said, “I don’t believe it!” Hermione didn’t recognise the man at first. He was dirty and dishevelled, with a long mop of blond hair and worn-out clothes that were a size too big for him. It wasn’t until he spoke that it clicked for her.

“I’m looking for Hermione Granger,” he said. “I heard she might be here.”

It was Ludo Bagman. The former Quidditch star had been on the run for over a year, ever since he lost a lot of money to the goblins and to Hermione, George, and Fred in the Quidditch World Cup and the Triwizard Tournament. He’d lost a lot of weight in that time, and he had dark circles around his eyes and a paranoid look on his face, but it was him.

“Yes, Mr. Bagman, I’m here,” she said.

“Oh, thank Merlin!” he gasped. “Granger, please, you have to take it back!” He rushed towards her, but George and Fred protectively closed ranks around her.

“What? she said nervously.

“What are you on about, Bagman?” Fred demanded. “You swindle us out of our savings, drop off the map for a year and _now_ you come crawling back to us?”

“Hermione had to invent a whole new branch of magic just to fund the shop,” George said.

“And George’s got the marks from Umbridge ‘cause we didn’t have the money to leave school,” Fred added sternly.

Bagman recoiled and bowed submissively. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was a fool. I couldn’t control myself, and I lost everything. I just want you to take the book back, Granger.”

“What book?” George and Fred said in unison.

“Oh,” Hermione said in surprise. “He means the book I gave him—the one I told you about.”

Bagman nodded eagerly, and he pulled a thick, dog-eared book from his robes and held it out towards her. “I knew it had to be from you,” he said. “It’s a muggle book. Please, just take it back and lift the curse you’ve put on this thing! I can’t sleep anymore!”

Hermione obligingly stepped forward and took the book from him. She looked down at the cover, trying to hide a smirk. The book was a large tome titled _The Complete Works of H. P. Lovecraft_ , but she’d printed in the fake subtitle beneath it: _True Eyewitness Accounts of the Paranormal_. “Wow, I really didn’t think this would work,” she said.

“What?” Bagman said.

She smirked openly at him, then drew her wand, pointed it at the book, and muttered, _“Tergeo”_ , wiping away the subtitle. Bagman blinked in surprise. “This book isn’t cursed, Mr. Bagman,” she informed him. “It never was. All I did was write in a fake subtitle. Your own mind did the rest.”

Bagman continued to stare at her stupidly.

“It’s fiction! One hundred percent fabricated! There’s no such thing as Cthulhu, or the Elder Things, or the Shoggoths, or the Necronomicon. It’s not real—which you would have known if you’d done the least amount of research into what you _knew_ was a muggle book.”

“In other words…” George started.

“She pranked you!” the Twins shouted in unison, drawing laughs from those around them.

Bagman kept staring and finally collected himself: “Oh, bloody hell! That was all a prank? Do you have any idea what grief you put me through, girl?”

“Well, you gave me nightmares with that four-dimensional maze of yours in the Tournament, Mr. Bagman,” Hermione said, “not to mention all the grief that Harry went through and swindling a lot of people out of money. It’s not my fault you ran away and didn’t ask for help. So there you go. You’re not cursed. You’re welcome.”

The man looked like he would thoroughly like to berate her further, but looking around and seeing all the witnesses, he decided that discretion was the better part of valour. “Er…right,” he said. “Um…thank you, Miss Granger. I—I supposed that’s all I needed.” He turned to leave.

“Hold up, Bagman,” Fred stopped him.

“There’s still the matter of the money you owe us,” George said.

“Not to mention the goblins,” Fred continued.

Bagman paled. “Look, I don’t have anything anymore,” he said quickly. “And even if I did, I have to prioritise. You seem like you’re doing pretty well for yourselves, and the goblins aren’t exactly forgiving.”

Hermione had a brain wave. “What if we could work out a deal, then?” she said.

“A deal? What do you mean?”

“Bill, could we talk to you?” she called.

Bill came over and stopped when he saw their guest, his eye widening. “ _Well,_ Ludovic Bagman. Look what the kneazle dragged in. You’ve been causing us a lot of trouble lately.”

“Are the goblins still giving the Ministry a hard time?” Hermione asked.

“Unfortunately, yes,” Bill sighed. “The goblins were neutral in the last war, but they’ve been more difficult about it this year because President Ragnok has pretty sore about _him_.” He jerked a thumb at Bagman. “It was his brother and two of the Directors who he owes all that money to.”

“Oh. So it’s personal for them?”

“Don’t say it to their faces, but yes.”

“Well, all the more reason to do something about it,” Hermione said. “I’ve got money now, so we have other options. Do you think we could go talk to them to try to work something out?”

“At Gringotts?” said Bill. “Have you _been_ there since the start of summer?”

“Well, no. I’ve been doing everything through letters and bank drafts.”

“Better keep it that way if you can unless you want to stand in line three hours for the goblins’ security and risk getting a Probity Probe in unfortunate places.”

Well, _that_ sounded unpleasant.

“But you work for them,” Fred pointed out.

“You think that makes them feel any different?”

“It sounds like Bagman’s a high-profile case for them, though,” George observed. “Would that speed things along at all?”

Bill looked between his brothers, Hermione, and Bagman, and he groaned. “Aw, hell, let’s go ahead.”

* * *

“This is bad idea,” Bill muttered to himself as they entered the building. “Okay, basic rules of dealing with goblins. Don’t lie. Don’t flatter them. Don’t make threats that you can’t follow through on. And don’t waste their time.”

 _Odd choice of words,_ Hermione thought. He notably didn’t mention politeness, which ought to have gone without saying, but the goblins tended to be pretty gruff themselves. It seemed like there was some kind of cultural gap that she didn’t understand. Come to think of it, she really didn’t know anything at all about goblins…

“Ahem, we’re here for a debtor’s meeting,” Bill told the goblin guards standing by the interior room in Gringott’s.

“Names?” one of the guards—the one carrying several different probes asked.

“Ludovic Bagman, debtor. Frederick Weasley, George Weasley, and Hermione Granger, creditors. William Weasley, creditors’ counsel, acting in my role as a liaison between goblins and wizards.”

One of the guards opened a locked bin while the other began waving a probe over them. The guard at the outer door had merely waved a sketchy-looking gold probe over them and let them pass without comment, but this scan looked far deeper. “Remove all wands and weapons and place them in the bin.” The goblin’s probe made a whirring sound as it passed by Hermione’s leg, and he added, “And we do mean _all_.”

Hermione looked to Bill for confirmation.

“You have a right to request an alternate venue if you want to hold onto your wand, but I trust Gringotts’ security,” he said.

She nodded her assent, and methodically, though not dragging it out, she removed her vine wood wand from her left sleeve, her red oak wand from her right sleeve, her homemade holdout wand from a makeshift leg holster, and her stiletto knife from a makeshift ankle holster. The guard actually raised an eyebrow at that last one, perhaps a tiny bit impressed. With that done, they were scanned with the several probes, pronounced clean, and entered the room.

An ornate conference table stood in the room, surrounded by ornate chairs, excepting the one on the end, which was plain wood and, if Hermione wasn’t mistaken, a couple inches lower than the others. That was Bagman’s chair. The five of them took their seats, and a few minutes later, three goblins entered, dressed in nicer clothes than usual for the goblin tellers, whom they recognised from Bagman’s previous dealings with them as Nagnok, Gornuk, and Bogrod.

“Ludovic Bagman,” Gornuk growled as he took his set. “It’s about time you showed your sorry face again. You’re an annoyingly difficult wizard to get hold of.”

Bagman was wisely silent.

“So, you are indebted to our booking agency in the amount of—” Gornuk checked a ledger. “—three hundred eighty-one galleons, eleven sickles, and eleven knuts—and it looks like we’re not the only ones.”

The goblins sent the Weasleys and Hermione a pointed look, which she quickly caught on to: “Yes, er, accounting for debts consolidated under Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, we are Mr. Bagman’s creditors in the amount of four hundred sixty galleons, three sickles, and twenty-seven knuts. We have unconfirmed reports that he owes quite a few more people from his booking operation, but statistically, we’re probably his largest creditors.

“Fascinating,” Gornuk said with obvious contempt. “So what do you have to say for yourself, Mr. Bagman?”

Bagman gave them a very nervous grin. “Look,” he said, “you already took everything I have. I went out and tried to get some work in the muggle world because I wouldn’t have any baggage out there, but…well, it’s harder than I thought.”

Hermione cocked an eyebrow at him. “What were you expecting, Mr. Bagman?” she asked. “With you being on the run, you had no references, no experience, and no permanent address. I can’t imagine it’s that different in the magical world when it comes to getting work.”

“You’re not the first to claim such, Mr. Bagman,” Bogrod said, ignoring her conversation. “It’s clear enough from your present state that you were doing nothing but trying to evade your reckoning.”

“I…er…but what can I do? I still don’t have any money.”

“Actually, I thought we might be able to reach an agreement on that, Mr. Bagman,” Hermione suggested.

The goblins narrowed their eyes suspiciously at her, while Bagman looked up at her hopefully. “What are you suggesting, Miss Granger?” Gornuk demanded.

“Our financial situation has recently changed,” she said. “We have more flexibility, now, and I thought it would be good if we could resolve this problem amicably in the interest of goblin-wizard relations. Now, Mr. Bagman, we could do this by the book and hire a solicitor to file an involuntary bankruptcy petition against you, _or_ …I could buy out your debt to the goblins, and you can work off the full amount in the shop.”

Fred and George glanced at each other in understanding and grinned, but to her surprise, the goblins hissed. “Typical wizards,” Gornuk said. “Bailing out their own and wanting to keep all the money-lending ‘in the family’ so that we can’t do anything to you.”

Hermione frowned, surprised that they took her suggestion that way. She wasn’t sure how to respond, and Fred and George weren’t either, but fortunately, Bill stepped in: “It’s self-interested, yes, but more insofar as it’s to our advantage to resolve this matter to improve relations during the war. Either way, you’re still getting what you want: your money, and quicker than you would have otherwise—however it is that Hermione got it.” He shot her a worried glance.

“And it’s not like we’ll let him of the hook, either,” Fred said, catching on. “He conned us out of more money than he did you. It so happens that we lost a good friend a couple months ago. It was really awful, and it means we could use an extra pair of hands at the shop while he works it off.”

“I see,” Bogrod said thoughtfully. “And you actually have the money to do this, Miss Granger?”

“I can make it a loan from one of my other businesses, Director Bogrod,” Hermione said. She reached into her handbag for her Gringotts “chequebook”. It wasn’t really a chequebook, but a book of forms for bank drafts, which wizards used for large transactions. Since there was only one bank in the country, and it dealt mostly in physical gold, it didn’t make sense to use cheques, credit cards, or any of the myriad other financial instruments the muggle world had developed. “I can authorise a draft right now of three-hundred eighty-one galleons, eleven sickles, and eleven knuts from Vault 1337 into Mr. Bagman’s vault, which you can then take to settle his debt to you.” _Thank you, Prince Alwaleed_ , she thought. (And that recent letter from New York looked interesting, too.)

“What about interest?” Nagnok asked greedily.

“Did you set up a payment plan with Mr. Bagman?” Bill asked. “If not, then you can’t assess interest in a formal debt arbitration since it’s assumed to have been a gentleman’s agreement.”

Nagnok scowled: “Well played, Cursebreaker Weasley.”

“Do we have a deal, then?” asked Fred.

The goblins conversed with each other for a minute in their rapid, vaguely Norse-sounding language and came to a consensus. “Very well, Weasley,” Gornuk said. “If Granger will give us the draft, we will have a deal.”

Hermione quickly filled out the form, being careful to make sure all the i’s were dotted and all the t’s were crossed before handing it over. The three goblins examined it and rose to leave without comment.

“Thank you for your time,” Hermione said, and she rose as well. “Now, Mr. Bagman, that leaves you owing us a combined eight-hundred forty-one galleons, fifteen sickles, and nine knuts. I’ll leave it to George and Fred to arrange how you can pay that off. Just don’t run off again.” She leaned close to him and whispered in his ear as she passed, _“Tekeli-li.”_

Bagman let out an unmanly yelp and flinched away, ready to agree profusely with whatever deal her boyfriend and his twin had to offer.

* * *

“What are the goblins like, Bill?” Hermione asked.

“Excuse me?”

It was one of the few times that summer Hermione was able to get away from home after the store opening: Harry’s birthday. It was almost certainly the only time Hermione and Bill would meet before she started her new Ancient Runes lessons in September. During a lull in the party, she broke away to ask Bill a few questions she’d been wondering about. “The goblins,” she repeated. “I wanted to ask you the day we went to Gringotts, but there wasn’t time.”

“What about them?”

“What are they like? Their society? Their culture? Their magic? It’s clearly pretty different from wizards’, but even though we learnt about the goblin rebellions _ad nauseum_ in History class, we learnt next to nothing about them as a people.”

Bill stared at her as if her were seeing her for the first time. “Wow,” he said. “Not may witches or wizards ever think to ask that question. Most don’t care.”

“You’d think they would, though. They handle the money, and it seems like relations with them are shaky. Plus, for other muggle-borns like me, you’d think we’d want to learn all we could about the magical world.”

“Until Binns kills your interest in magical history,” Bill pointed out.

“Well, true,” she admitted. Even her fellow muggle-borns couldn’t stay awake in that class.

“Eh, sit down, then.” Bill grabbed a bottle of Butterbeer for each of them and took a seat. “So there are a lot of misconceptions about goblins out there. A lot of wizards think of them as a dangerous warrior race, mainly because of all the goblin rebellions and battle-axes and such, but they’re really not—not when you get to know them. And if wizards don’t think that, they usually think goblins are a race of greedy, money-grubbing bankers, but that’s not right either. That’s not to say they aren’t dangerous—both physically and in their guile—and quick to offence too—but if you asked them, what they really identify as is craftsman.”

“Really?” She’d never heard that before. Even though goblin craftsmanship was highly prized, it certainly wasn’t emphasised in History class. “So more like the dwarves of Norse mythology?”

“Yes, the Norse term is _Svart_ _álfar_. The Gobbledegook term is similar; it’s _Svartaaf._ ‘Goblin’ is just the label they take in English, and a fairly recent one at that. It was an act of reappropriating a derogatory name wizards gave them in the seventeenth century. But as I said, in goblin culture, they value fine craftsmanship above all else. Even the goblin king isn’t the strongest warrior or the cleverest politician. He’s the most skilled craftsman.”

Hermione frowned. She’d _definitely_ never heard that before, and it didn’t really make sense. “What kind of craft?” she asked. “Swordsmithing?”

“ _No._ That’s one of those misconceptions everyone believes. First of all, it can be any craft. The king is most commonly a metalworker or, failing that, a stonemason or a gemcutter, but any Master Craftsman can challenge the king if he—or she—feels their work is superior. Queen Herya was a weaver of fine tapestries. One or two were painters. Nidhavel the Soft-Spoken was actually a composer, although he was controversial because he didn’t create a physical craft.”

“And they think this is the best way to find someone who can lead a country?” she asked.

“There’s a goblin proverb that says, ‘One who can shape fine gold can also shape nations,’” he explained. “Roughly. It loses something in translation, but it’s sort of like the old line that ‘he who can be trusted with little can be trusted with much.’ And besides, can you really say our form of government is any better?”

She had to admit he had a point.

“But here’s the thing, Hermione,” Bill said. “Even though their swords and armour are beyond compare, the goblins’ craftsmanship doesn’t revolve around weapons—or if it does, it’s because they feel they’ve been driven to it. At their core, they create for the beauty of it. Their finest works are jewelry and decoration, not swords.”

That Hermione thought she understood. _“On silver necklaces they strung the flowering stars,”_ she quoted. _“On crowns they hung the dragon-fire. In twisted wire they meshed the light of moon and sun.”_

Bill stared at her with wide eyes. “Did you become a poet all of a sudden?”

She shook her head: “That was Tolkien—a muggle writer—describing the craft of the dwarves in his fantasy.” Ironically, she actually remembered the poem from the animated film more so than the book.

“Well, he came nearer to it than I ever would have expected a muggle to. The goblin culture really revolves around that ideal—like how they view the work of your hands as sacred—as something that can’t lawfully be taken away from you. That’s another major issue. They do sell their wares—and at exorbitant prices—but only to the buyer themselves, not to their descendants. A lot of wizards, if they even know that, like to say they’re greedy and only rent out what they make, but they don’t see it that way. Because they consider the work of their hands sacred, they say that when the buyer dies, the maker has the highest priority of inheritance.”

“Huh. That’s interesting. I can see how that would work self-consistently…But I imagine it causes friction with wizards, though.”

“That’s an understatement. They still complain about Hogwarts holding onto the Sword of Gryffindor, and that was a thousand years ago. But of course, the biggest conflict between goblins and wizards is about wand use. Goblins are capable of using wands, but the Ministry only allows humans and part-humans to carry them.”

“Typical pureblood prejudice,” Hermione grumbled.

“Eh, personally, I’m not convinced wands would do them that much good, but fair enough. Anyway, there’s a lot more to learn. If you want, I can give you a little more overview during our lessons this autumn.”

“That would be good if we have time. Thanks,” she said. She rejoined the party, but not before an odd thought struck her: _Hmm, I could use a sword_ _…_

* * *

_Septima, you have to see this!_

That was what Hermione’s letter to Septima had said when she invited her to her house for “dinner and a show”. Yes that was exactly what she had written.

For all her closeness with Hermione and her family, Septima Vector had only been to her favourite student’s house once: the very first time they met, when Hermione had tested into Arithmancy. Since then, the Grangers had mostly kept home and school life separate, and while they had met for dinner a few times, it had always been at the Leaky Cauldron. But in this case, Hermione wanted to show her one of her muggle television shows, so it had to be at her home.

It was certainly good to see Hermione and her family again, and under favourable circumstances for once. Most of her interactions with the Grangers over the years had involved explaining to them why their daughter had almost died _this_ time. She couldn’t say she wasn’t glad to see Hermione take _that_ over job for herself.

And from the look of things, she was doing well for herself. She hadn’t been involuntarily shipped back to France, anyway. Septima did notice that the Granger household looked more magical than the last time she was there, and not just because a house elf was cooking supper. Hermione’s workspace was filled with an honestly worrying amount of spellbooks, runes, things that looked like alchemical diagrams, and half-finished artifacts, along with copious arithmancy material. She reached out and touched several scraps of jet-black cloth that wasn’t made from any material she recognised and felt like it _must_ have some kind of magical properties.

“What _is_ this, Hermione?” she asked.

“Bulletproof nanofibre cloth. I decided to try to make a whole outfit out of it. It’ll stand up to most physical attacks, and I’m going to have George and Fred enchant them with extra protections.” Of course, that was trickier than the cloak. Clothing was hard to enchant both because of Gamp’s Law and because of the amount of time it spent in contact with the human body, which, for witches and wizards, could interfere with it, depending on the charms.

“Wow, you’re really going all out, aren’t you?”

“After what happened at the Ministry, I have to,” she said simply. Septima wasn’t surprised.

The dinner was very good, and it was nice to be able to catch up, but Septima was much more interested in the show Hermione wanted to show her. As for Hermione, there was no doubt about how amazing this was to her. She’d finally had a chance to see—and tape—the documentary about fractals that she’d heard so much about. It wasn’t even a new documentary. It had run last year, but Hermione wasn’t at home enough to have seen it until now. It was called _Fractals: The Colours of Infinity_ , and as a bonus, it was narrated by her favourite muggle author, Arthur C. Clarke. And it absolutely dazzled her.

She’d seen a few coloured pictures of fractals like the Mandelbrot set before in books, but the kaleidoscope of shifting colours and continuous zooms over an astonishing range of scales played again and again in the course of an hour was a hundred times as vivid as anything she had ever seen before. The amount of computing power it must have taken to generate those images must have been staggering. She wondered if she could program a parchment to draw fractals like the Mathemagician’s Map drew the castle, and what its capabilities would be. The runes would certainly be simple enough—simpler than the Map itself—but what was the fundamental speed of rune calculations? It might take her entire mastery to pull it off. Wouldn’t that be ironic—receiving her mastery for a purely aesthetic project after everything else she’d done?

Hermione put in the tape and started the program. Septima was interested at once from the title screen, and by five minutes in, when they started showing the deep zooms, she was as dazzled as Hermione was. “This is amazing,” she said. “That’s _all_ mathematically calculated? How can they do that?”

Hermione paused the tape. “Well, first, television isn’t exactly a moving picture like magical photos. They show still pictures one after another very fast so it _looks_ like it’s moving—twenty-five pictures per second, normally. And each picture is drawn by a computer—or probably several computers—that can do the arithmetic operations millions of times per second. And even then, it can take more than an hour to draw each one because it’s so complicated.”

“Merlin! _Millions_ of operations per second?”

“Billions for the most advanced ones. It’s thousands of times the level of that light code you made to protect the Philosopher’s Stone in my first year. I don’t know if it’s even possible in principle with magic.”

“Phew. I don’t know, either. And at those scales, I doubt even Professor Babbling does.” Septima already knew most of the explanation of what the Mandelbrot set was and how it was computed from what Hermione had told her, but she wasn’t prepared for how muggles had raised the maths to an art form—how they could make graphs that looked eerily like acacia trees, how they could paint realistic pictures of mountains purely from fractal geometry. She didn’t know that it could be used to analyse the structures of plants, clouds, the rings of Saturn, and even galaxies.

The other surprise for her, however, which Hermione had _not_ expected, was Stephen Hawking. Hawking appeared to be a gaunt man sitting motionless in a chair who spoke with a strange voice despite the frozen rictus on his face. “What’s wrong with him?” she asked.

“Him? Oh, I supposed you wouldn’t recognise it. He has a nerve disease that leaves him almost completely paralysed,” Hermione explained.

“Goodness! But how can he speak, then?”

“He writes words by clicking that switch in his hand in a special code, and a computer speaks the words.”

“Really? And he’s a…a mathematician?”

“A cosmologist—er…like an Unspeakable, but less secretive. He’s one of the most brilliant scientists in the world. He can do functional integrals in his head, and even I can’t do that.”

There were muggles who were even smarter than Hermione? Intellectually, she knew there must be, but the thought was intimidating, especially seeing one who must have overcome so many other difficulties. “I’ve never heard of anything like that,” she said. “There are patients in St. Mungo’s who look like him whom everyone’s written off, and he’s a top researcher?”

 _Like Neville_ _’s parents?_ Hermione thought briefly. _But no, Neville_ _’s mother can move under her own power. She’d find a way to send a message if she could. And even if most wizards were oblivious enough to miss it, Neville wouldn’t._ “Well, it depends on the condition of the brain,” she said. “Motor neurone disease is distinctive in how it only paralyses the body without hurting the mind. Anyway…”

She restarted the tape again, and lest Septima think this was a purely mathematical and scientific endeavour, the muggles described commercial, military, and even medical applications like “fractal image compression” and “spy satellites” that mostly went over her head, but were clearly very important. However, she really got lost near the end with the talk of the appearance of fractals in the brain and in art and the notion of free will. “What? she said in confusion. “Collective unconscious? What is he talking about, Hermione?”

“Um…this bit is kind of off the deep end, Septima,” she admitted. “He’s talking about fractals being some fundamental way to understand the universe and ourselves, but I think he’s overplaying it.”

“Obviously. It’s not even all true,” Mrs. Granger cut in.

“It’s not?” Septima asked.

“No—like the eye thing. They’re called phosphenes—the images you see if you press on your eyeballs. They’re caused by pressure stimulating the light-sensing cells in the eyes. There’s nothing mystically mathematical about them.”

“Yes, well, he does tend to get mystical,” Hermione said. “Arthur Clarke has a saying: _Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic._ ” Septima raised an eyebrow. “Taken one way, it means that magic—real magic—is fundamentally explainable by muggle science; we just don’t know how yet. He doesn’t know about magic, of course, but I believe it. The thing is, in his books, he usually goes the other direction: the beings with supreme technology are like gods or angels, and they’re completely inscrutable.”

“Well, I suppose anyone can get strange ideas,” Septima offered. “But I can see why you were so excited about fractal geometry now. This is a whole world that we arithmancers never even imagined. I’ll have to see if I can do anything more with it.”

“I had some ideas of my own for my mastery,” Hermione agreed, “but we can discuss them at school.”

“Of course. I’ll probably see you next in September, but you can call on me anytime. Thank you for dinner, Mr. and Mrs. Granger.”

“It was no problem, Professor,” Mr. Granger said.

“Stay safe, Septima,” Hermione told her.

“You too, Hermione.”

* * *

_Dear Mr. Trump,_

_Both of the requested pieces will be delivered upon payment of fifty-five thousand United States dollars (US$55,000) by check or wire transfer to Archimedes Jewellers at Barclays—Lombard Street in London. I_ _’m sure you will find them suitably ‘huge’._

_Archimedes_

_δῶς μοι πᾶ στῶ καὶ τὰν γᾶν κινάσω._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later.


	39. Sixth Year, Autumn Term

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The five elements are Earth, Water, Air, Fire, and JK Rowling.

Hermione got ready for her first day at Hogwarts for her “sixth year”. She had already met with Professor Slughorn and Remus at Grimmauld Place for her other lessons (except Runes, which she’d start at the Burrow in a few weeks when she could Apparate freely), but this was her first class at the castle—Alchemy, to be precise.

Professor McGonagall had sent her a letter telling her the class schedule, which had necessitated some minor changes to her plans. Alchemy was a late afternoon class sandwiched in between sixth-year Transfiguration and supper on Wednesdays and Fridays. She considered taking Professor McGonagall’s transfiguration class as well, but she decided against it. She didn’t want to run afoul of any rules that would make her a full-time Hogwarts student.

One of the Weasleys or an Order member would need to Apparate her to and from the school, so to save them the trouble, her parents agreed to let her stay at the castle overnight on Friday nights since she had her “independent studies” on Saturday mornings. She also had the option of eating supper with her friends on Wednesdays. Of course, they would reevaluate all of that once she could Apparate on her own.

Hermione had decided to make something of a statement with her return to Hogwarts, and her clothes were a big part of that. Over her regular underwear, she pulled a carbon nanofibre vest and bike shorts that George had enchanted for her. They were thinner than her jacket lining, and they weren’t bulletproof, but they _were_ slash-proof, and while they were heavier than a cotton vest and shorts, the fabric was so fine and they were so good at drawing away heat and moisture that they almost felt like they weren’t even there.

Over these went a skirt, shirt, cardigan, stockings, and outer robe that were of similar design to the Hogwarts uniforms, but were of higher quality from Twilfitt and Tattings. She had also asked to have them made with bright purple trim rather than any of the house colours, since purple was the traditional colour of magic, especially light magic. In other words, she’d still look like a student, but a wealthy one, and one who took pride in her status as a witch, independent of house rivalries. For extra protection, she added a bulletproof lining to her outer robe. She’d wanted to make nanofibre stockings, too, but the trouble with carbon nanotubes was that they had very little give at reasonable forces, so they weren’t a very suitable material.

Mr. Weasley picked her up from home. She’d considered changing her Monday-Wednesday schedule at Grimmauld Place to further reduce the inconvenience, but she decided against it because a five-day workweek was less gruelling. They Apparated straight to the gates of Hogwarts—not a typical Apparition spot, but it was accessible and close to the safety of the wards, so it was an ideal spot. (It honestly wasn’t that hard in the magical world to make it so an enemy couldn’t track your movements when you out and about.)

The castle had changed too this year. The aura that emanated from its walls felt…not darker, exactly, but harsher, pricklier. The castle gates were chained shut, and everything somehow looked a tiny bit more shadowed. Hermione saw the chains and guess that an _Alohomora_ wouldn’t work on those. “Thank you for bringing me, Mr. Weasley,” she said, “but how do I get in?”

“We’re just about on time. They should know you’re coming—ah, there’s someone, now.”

Sure enough. A robed figure moved towards the gates, holding a wand in her left hand. Her right hand was a mechanical one similar to Cedric’s. “Oh, it’s you,” Hestia Jones said flatly when she reached them.

“Auror Jones, I didn’t know you were here this year,” Hermione replied.

“It’s ex-Auror, now,” she said resignedly, holding up her wooden hand. “I’m the new Defence Professor.”

“Oh, that’s…” she trailed off. She wasn’t sure what she was supposed to say. The position was cursed, after all. But what other prospects did an Auror have without her wand hand?

“So this is the famous Hermione Granger,” Auror Jones said. “I hear you nearly killed Bellatrix Lestrange.”

“Yes,” she groaned, “but it wasn’t with dark magic, if that’s what you heard. And she tried to kill me first.”

“I don’t care so much how you did it. The woman is a menace. Mad-Eye even said ‘good for her’ when he found out, even though she lived.”

“I suppose he thinks I wasn’t paranoid enough.”

“He did mention that, too.”

“I didn’t think wizards knew how to restart a heart,” Hermione defended herself. “It involves electricity.”

“Not all of us are completely ignorant,” Jones said indignantly. “Anyway, I wanted to ask you while you’re here: I held some mock duels in my classes, and some of my students were using spells I’ve never seen before, and they mentioned your name. There was one that looks like an _Incendio_ , but it blows up in your opponent’s face and disorients them.”

“Yeah, _Extonio_ —the Flash-Bang Hex,” she said. “That’s one of mine.”

“You invented it?” Jones said with interest.

“Uh huh. And taught it to the D.A. I assume you’ve heard—”

“That you and Potter led an illegal Defence Club for half a year? Yeah. And it sounds like they learnt more from you than they did from class, not that that’s saying much, so…good on you, I guess.”

“Um, thanks, Auror Jones,” Hermione said uneasily. It sounded like she didn’t appreciate her and Harry moving in on her turf. But the D.A. was over now; it shouldn’t matter. In any case, Jones wasn’t very talkative the rest of the way up to the castle. She just escorted Hermione to the Alchemy classroom and left her there. As soon as she walked in, the rest of the class took notice. Probably the robes—maybe.

Alchemy was the smallest class in Hogwarts. The sixth- and seventh-years were grouped in the class together, and there were still only ten of them. And even more unusually, they sat at five lab benches arranged in a circle. From Hermione’s year were Daphne Greengrass, Anthony Goldstein, Terry Boot, and Su Li, and there were five seventh-years, although Cho Chang was the only one she knew personally. From what she’d heard, this was typical.

Professor Dumbledore appeared, seemingly from thin air, in his midnight blue robes with gold stars, and he sat at a desk that was part of the circle, almost as an equal. “Welcome,” he said, “and to the seventh-years, welcome back. It is good to see young people continuing to take an interest in the subtle and extraordinarily complex science of alchemy. Now, to get the housekeeping out of the way, so to speak, Alchemy is unique among the classes at Hogwarts in that it combines multiple years with a two-year curriculum. To accomplish this, the first month or so of the class each year covers the basic principles of alchemy, and then, we will study a slate of topics in the field of alchemy, which will rotate every other year. For the seventh-years, this first month will therefore be mostly review, but this review is especially important to this class. Alchemy is even more dangerous than transfiguration if it goes wrong—as dangerous as the most volatile of potions—so safety is of the utmost importance here.”

 _Just like in muggle chemistry_ , Hermione thought.

“Also, because this class is so small, it will run more like a seminar,” he continued, “so don’t be afraid to speak up if you have a question or even just a pertinent comment without being called upon.”

Well, this would certainly be different, although it _was_ logical with only ten students.

“Alchemy is a varied field of study lying at the intersection of transfiguration, potions, and ritual. This year’s topics will revolve around the elements and their transmutation. This branch—elemental alchemy—is the part of alchemy that leans towards transfiguration, or—” He looked at Hermione. “—to muggle chemistry. Indeed, we will be studying the fundamental principles underlying the field of transfiguration this year, among other things. Students who were here last year will be able to tell you about our studies of spagyric—plant alchemy. This branch of alchemy leans more towards potions. After all, what is potions if not a transmutation process of seemingly-random ingredients into liquids with magical effects? Thus, we studied the underlying principles of potion making last year amid other topics such as what is sometimes called ‘dry potion-crafting’—producing medicines from the ashes or other byproducts of plants without a liquid base—and a few showy parlour tricks such as restoring dead flowers to life.”

Hermione was taking copious notes. Alchemy was a broader field than she’d realised. In fact, she could think of an apt analogy: it seemed alchemy was to transfiguration—and potions, interestingly—as analysis was to calculus. Maybe there was a reason Professor Slughorn was so good at both fields.

“Professor, I thought there was no magic that could reverse death,” Terry Boot said.

“Correct, Mr. Boot,” Dumbledore replied with a slight smile. “However, death means something very different to plants than it does to us. Plants die bit by bit, not all at once. It can take days, weeks, or, in the case of the longest-lived trees, even _centuries_ for them to die. Consider this: fruits and vegetables that are eaten fresh—that is, that have not been cooked, dried, or frozen—are still alive when they are eaten. Their cells are still absorbing light and moisture and surviving off their stored sugars.”

The sixth-years looked at each other in surprise. Hermione hadn’t known that, and it appeared the others hadn’t either. Her animal rights sensibilities twitched, but she quickly quashed that. Vegetables didn’t have nervous systems.

“So you see,” Dumbledore concluded, “even a wilted flower is usually only _mostly_ dead and thus can be revived—at least with a success rate sufficient to wow a muggle audience as the Count of St. Germain once did. But we’re getting ahead of ourselves. To begin our review, and to introduce our newcomers to the field, can you tell me what alchemy properly _is_ —Mr. Belby?”

Belby, one of the seventh-year Ravenclaws, nodded and answered, “Alchemy as a modern field of study is just transformation magic—but in its most general sense. Like how transfiguration is limited by Gamp’s Law, but a big part of alchemy is the study of how it’s possible to get around Gamp’s Law in some cases.”

“Correct. Alchemy is a somewhat eclectic field. This is largely due to the work of Paracelsus, who laid down many of the foundations before the distinctions between its various branches were understood. We reconcile this today by defining alchemy as the study of transformations that cannot be accomplished with lesser magics such as transfiguration and potions, including, yes, those that would violate Gamp’s Law.

“As I said, this year, we will focus on elemental alchemy, which, as its name implies, is the science of manipulating and transmuting the elements,” Dumbledore said. He rose and backed up to the chalkboard, writing the word _ELEMENTS_ on it. “So we must naturally begin with the question of, What _is_ an element? Miss Granger, perhaps you can tell us?”

Hermione wasn’t going to field that one, since she suspected her definition wasn’t the magical one. But since he asked her directly, she suspected that was actually what he was fishing for. “Well, there are a number of historical definitions,” she said, “but an element is considered to be one of the fundamental substances that compose all matter, which cannot be broken down further by chemical means.”

“Which is, essentially, the historical definition is well,” Dumbledore agreed, “but I believe Miss Granger is referring specifically to the _chemical_ elements.” He wrote _Chemical Elements_ underneath the first line. These are the substances that are composed of identical _atoms_ , which, for our purposes, are indivisible. Oxygen and hydrogen are chemical elements, for example, which together form the classical element of water. Miss Granger, how many chemical elements are there?”

“Er, I haven’t kept pace with the latest discoveries, Professor, but I know there are…” She stopped and considered her wording. Stable elements? Natural elements? Long-lived elements? “Well, there are eighty-three that occur in nature in significant quantities. Muggles have created…about half a dozen others with actual useful applications and a few more that are too unstable to use.”

“ _Muggles_ create elements?” Daphne Greengrass said in disbelief.

“Indeed, Miss Greengrass,” Dumbledore replied cheerfully. “Miss Granger’s recent papers on Gamp’s Law dealt with that very topic. But since we are interested here in _natural, primordial_ elements—those occurring from the formation of the Earth—the number we want is eighty- _four_.”

“Eighty- _four?_ ” Hermione said. “What did I miss?”

“The eighty-fourth…is plutonium. The details are complicated, but it was discovered in the 1970s that primordial plutonium occurs in uranium ores at the rate of one part in a billion billion. The amount is minuscule, but it is important because it completes an arithmantic matrix: seven times twelve primordial elements.”

Hermione made a note to look that up in her nuclear physics book.

“Of course, alchemy is not well known for the study of chemical elements, even though much of the new work of the past two hundred years has centred around them. This is mainly because the chemical elements were not clearly recognised as such until the muggle chemist Lavoisier did so in 1789, which revolutionised the field—yes a muggle, and yes that long after the discovery of the Philosopher’s Stone,” he added at most of the class’s surprised looks. “You may have wondered, if Nicholas Flamel synthesised the Philosopher’s Stone in the fourteenth century, what contributions I and other alchemists could have made in the twentieth. This is a large part of that.

“In any case, the field is far better known for its study of the _classical_ elements. Most ancient alchemists meant the same thing by the word element that we still do today—a fundamental substance that cannot be broken down further. Today, we understand that this is not literally true, but the classical elements do, in several important ways, represent fundamental _magical_ roots, which we will study in the coming weeks. Now, how many classical elements are there.”

There were mixed replied of “four” and “five”, causing confusion in the class. Dumbledore gave a wry smile and answered, “In fact, there are _five_.” He wrote them on the board in the traditional diamond diagram. “Water, earth, fire, air or wind, and…?”

“Aether,” Anthony Goldstein said.

“Correct.” He wrote the word in the middle of the diagram.

“But the aether doesn’t exist, Professor,” Hermione said.

He raised an eyebrow at her. “Doesn’t it?”

“No, Aristotle said aether was the substance the heavens were made of, but they’re actually the same elements we have here on Earth.”

Dumbledore nodded subtly. “That is correct, after a fashion, Miss Granger. Aristotle erred in thinking that the heavens were made of a different physical substance than the Earth. But the Greek _aither_ literally means ‘that which fills the heavens’, and in this respect, Aristotle’s usage is entirely consistent with the alchemists of India, Japan, and many other cultures, who gave the fifth element names that translate as—” He waved his hand, and the chalk letters reformed themselves on the board. “—void.”

 _Of course, void_ , she thought. If alchemy could be described by group theory as she knew the chemical elements could, then it would have to have a null element: the vacuum. Dumbledore went on to explain how nearly all alchemical traditions recognised these five elements, with two notable exceptions. One was Chinese alchemy, which was based on completely different foundations of competing energies, and the other was Paracelsus. Paracelsus recognised three fundamental elements: sulphur, mercury, and salt; while he regarded the classical five as merely qualities of substances. That was oddly nearer to the truth in Hermione’s mind. The classical elements clearly represented states of matter, not true elements: solid, liquid, gas, plasma, and vacuum—as Dumbledore pointed out as well. For all his eccentricities, Paracelsus was a lot nearer to muggle chemistry than those who came before him.

Hermione was pleased to find that Dumbledore was an even better teacher at Alchemy than he was at Occlumency. The discussion was fascinating (being in a class of mostly Ravenclaws helped), and it was with reluctance that he had to cut it short when it was time to go to dinner. “One of the downsides of a late afternoon class,” he told them. “You are not required to be in the Great Hall on time, but I am. I wouldn’t want Professor McGonagall to take away points from me.”

They laughed as they packed up their things, and Hermione joined the rest of the students for dinner. She was eager to see Harry, Ginny, and Ron again (and make sure they were staying out of trouble). She reached the Entrance Hall just as Hagrid was coming in.

“Hermione! Good ter see yeh,” he said jovially.

“You too, Hagrid,” she said. “This year’s starting better than last year, I hope?”

“Lots. Well, it’s got a lot darker outside the school, but at least no one’s makin’ trouble in here. How are yeh? Yeh doin’ alright?”

“Oh, it’s been difficult with my parents, but other than that, things are going okay.”

“That’s good ter hear. I know I’ve been seein’ lots o’ the Twins pranks around the castle, so I know they’re doing well. I’m guessin’ yer doin’ a part-time program here?”

“Yes, just Alchemy and Arithmancy. I’m sticking with private tutoring for the rest so I can still go home at night.”

“Well, I hope it works out fer yeh. Say, stop by me hut sometime if yeh can. I want yeh ter meet me brother.”

 _The brother who_ _’s a sixteen-foot-tall giant who can rip fully-grown trees from the ground?_ she thought. “Er…I can’t do a whole lot until I turn seventeen and pass my Apparition test, Hagrid. And even then, my parents won’t want me wandering too much, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Thanks, Hermione. Yeh know, I wanted ter ask yeh and Harry ter keep an eye on him if I got sacked, but yeh were both gone, so I just had ter take him with me when the Aurors chased us out, but o’ course, we were back by mornin’ thanks ter Dumbledore.”

“Well, I’m…glad that worked out for you, Hagrid.” She waved goodbye and took a seat at the Gryffindor Table near Harry, Ginny, and Ron. Seamus Finnigan was back, she noticed, though he was a ways down the table and not talking to anyone. The pimples spelling _SNEAK_ across his face were gone, although he had some visible scarring. Seamus had actually sent Hermione a letter apologising profusely for betraying the D.A. and claiming he never would have done it if he’d known “You-Know-Who” was back earlier in the summer. Hermione wasn’t in a very forgiving mood, even though she’d sort of forced Seamus to join. Almost everyone else in the D.A. had believed Harry. There was no reason for Seamus not to. And if he hadn’t got Harry expelled, maybe the incident at the Department of Mysteries incident and Lee’s death could have been avoided.

She didn’t have any interest in talking to Seamus, though. She wanted to focus on her friends while she was here.

“Hi, Hermione, how’s it going?” Ginny asked.

“Pretty well. Alchemy is fascinating. I’m glad I stayed for it. George and Fred say hello, by the way. Apparently sales are dropping off with everyone back in school, but the shop’s still doing alright.”

“That’s good,” Ron said. “So, purple robes? Is that some secret House of Merlin or something?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “No, Ron, I just thought it would be a good look for visiting the school. I wasn’t sure I could still wear Gryffindor robes, but I still wanted to look like a student.”

“It looks good on you,” Ginny said.

“Thanks, Ginny. So Harry, how did Professor Snape feel about you joining his Potions class?”

“He was as big a git as ever,” Harry said. “He tried to give me a detention and throw me out of the classroom to start with. And I think he almost had a heart attack when I showed him my O.W.L. marks. He even checked with McGonagall to make sure they were right.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah—oh, Hermione look there!” he whispered.

She turned and looked where he was pointing. “At Malfoy?”

“Yes, look.”

Draco Malfoy was swaggering down the Slytherin Table to his seat, his robes billowing behind him, looking far more confident than he had last spring when his father had gone to Azkaban.

“Well, _he_ looks cocky this year,” Hermione commented.

“Yeah, but look at his robes.”

“His robes? Well, they’re—” Her voice trailed off as she made the connection.

“They’re billowing around like Snape’s,” Ron said helpfully.

“That…is a little odd,” she admitted.

“And that’s not all,” Harry said. “I was watching him in Potions class, and I don’t think he’s using the same book as everyone else.”

“He’s not?”

“No, he wasn’t doing the same steps as the rest of us, but his potion turned out perfect.”

“Oh, well, that’s not that strange,” Hermione said. “Professor Slughorn said you have to adjust the recipe as you go, like in cooking, remember? Maybe Malfoy’s better than we thought at Potions.”

“I don’t think so. I got a good look at his book. It was old, and all marked up.”

“So?”

“So since when does Malfoy ever use anything other than the best?” Harry demanded. “And on the Hogwarts Express, I overheard him talking about how things were different now, that it wasn’t about getting good marks anymore. And there’s still what he was doing in Knockturn Alley.”

“Okay, but what does all that mean?” she asked.

Harry lowered his voice further: “I think Voldemort gave Malfoy some kind of assignment, and Snape’s helping him.”

“But Snape’s on our side,” she replied automatically.

“So everyone says, but how do we know it’s true?”

“I don’t buy it, mate,” Ron said. “You-Know-Who giving _Malfoy_ an assignment?”

“Why not?” asked Harry. “Dumbledore’s given Hermione and me assignments.”

Hermione was about to say that was different—that their assignments were purely academic—but she couldn’t really say that now that they were looking for horcruxes. “I suppose it’s possible,” she admitted, “but really, what assignment could Malfoy do in here besides annoying you? Snape’s probably just feeding him spells and potions tips to make himself look better to the other Death Eaters.”

“I don’t think so,” Harry said. “I think there’s something more to it. I’m going to keep an eye on him.”

“Well, you can if you want. Just don’t get in trouble,” she replied.

“Not making any promises, Hermione.”

Ginny whacked him in the arm. “Don’t worry, Hermione,” she said. “I’ll keep him in line.”

* * *

Between her Hogwarts days, Hermione’s lessons at Grimmauld Place were as intense as ever. Nonverbal spellcasting was the norm at N.E.W.T.-level, not to mention the fact that she was pushing herself extra-hard in Defence. However, she still found Transfiguration to be the most interesting of the subjects she was studying there, and she had to admit, Professor Slughorn was nearly as good at it as Professor McGonagall was.

“Now, that we’ve covered the basic knowledge you’ll need to begin your Alchemy class,” Slughorn said, “let’s start in on one of the most important topics of N.E.W.T.-level Transfiguration: conjuring. Conjuring, or conjuration, is the art of making objects appear from nothing. Different authorities have different ways of describing this, but you might appreciate the alchemical explanation: that conjuration is the art of transfiguring object from the element of void. Naturally, this is more difficult than standard transfiguration and is subject to different restrictions, but it’s a good guideline for the spells.

“Now, if Minerva is still doing her job, you will have had the rule drilled into you: some transfiguration is permanent, and some is not. On the other hand, conjuration is _never_ permanent.”

“Right,” Hermione said. “Professor McGonagall explained the basics when we covered Vanishing. But I was wondering something about that: what about the _Aguamenti_ Charm? Isn’t that a permanent conjuration?”

“Oho, clever girl. Not quite, Miss Granger. It _does_ look like one, since it creates water from nothing, but, as Professor Dumbledore will probably tell you soon, _Aguamenti_ is actually an _alchemical_ charm. If you looked at the arithmancy, you would find that it is different from conjuration. Alchemy makes little use of actual spells, but each element has its own class of permanent conjuration charms. _Incendio_ is the trivial case for fire. Even a first-year can cast it. _Evanesco, Aguamenti,_ and _Ventus_ are examples of more advanced charms for the elements of void, water, and air, respectively. The Bubble-Head Charm is also in this category. The remaining element, earth conjuration, requires a mastery-level charm, and it can only conjure earth in its purest form.”

“Stone?” she asked. “Dirt isn’t pure, and most metals aren’t as long-lasting, so I think it would have to be.”

“Yes, but not just stone—quartz.”

“Wizards can conjure quartz?” she said in surprise. She thought she had a monopoly on making gemstones.

“Only with great difficulty, and the only real call for it is to make powerful rune stones.”

Hermione’s eyes widened: “Of course, the anchor stones of Hogwarts. That’s how the Founders built a pure quartz stone circle instead of just using granite.”

“Yes, or at least, I suspect that’s what they did. But now, to basic conjuring. It is never permanent. Any conjured object is a construct that will vanish after a time if left on its own. You’ve dealt with this before, with non-permanent transfiguration, but it’s time to examine the subject in more detail. Observe. I can conjure up an animal…say, a squirrel—” He waved his wand, and a red squirrel appeared on the dining room table. “—and it will behave like a real squirrel to the best of my knowledge, but in truth, it is only a construct. As I am not an expert on the subject of squirrels, you would soon see it behaving in un-squirrel-like ways and repeating its actions like a magical photograph. It has no need to eat or sleep, although I can enchant it to do so. But I can also enchant it to do other things, like dance a waltz, far easier than doing it with true animals.” He waved his wand again, and the squirrel stood up on its hind legs and began twirling around the table. Hermione giggled.

“One thing you probably haven’t done in class before is to modify conjured objects, another subject we will be touching on, albeit not as deeply. Suppose I wanted to make a purple and green squirrel.” With another wave of his wand, a second squirrel appeared, this one with bright purple fur and green underneath. It began dancing with the first squirrel. “That is not very difficult, but remember, transfiguration is the magic of the familiar. The more you change the pattern from a normal squirrel or any other animal, the more difficult it is. Conjuring a six-legged squirrel, for example, would require you to think very carefully about how the skeleton should be arranged, which thus requires an advanced knowledge of anatomy, a lot of messy experimentation, or both.”

Hermione cocked her head and tried to make sense of this. Why would you _want_ to conjure a six-legged squirrel? But then again, why would you want to turn beetles into buttons, either? It was times like this when the whole field of transfiguration seemed like a solution in search of a problem. “So…what’s the point of that, Professor?”

“Well, there’s not exactly a point to it in particular. A six-legged squirrel is a little beyond my expertise, to be honest. But we’ll be doing some simpler exercises to help you improve your conjuring skills. A rabbit with a duck-bill is a classic example, which is about as difficult as we’ll be dealing with. It takes a true artist to conjure a purely imaginary creature from whole cloth, so to speak.”

“Okay…but why now? Why not do this with the transfigured animals we’ve been working with for years?”

“For two reasons, Miss Granger: one, the complexity of the spell involved, and two, it’s actually _easier_ to conjure an animal with an unnatural form than it is to transfigure one, for a construct has no reality of its own, while a living animal has a resistance to such drastic magic. And we may be thankful for that, else human transfiguration would be far too dangerous to entrust to any but professionals.”

“No reality of its own?” she said in confusion.

“Well, they are conjured from nothing, aren’t they?” He motioned to the squirrels again. “They have no existence—no physical properties at all other than that which we give them.”

“No physical properties…” Her eyebrows rose as she made the connection. “Then—could you conjure a weightless squirrel, Professor?”

“Weightless?”

“Unaffected by gravity?”

“I know what it means, Miss Granger. It’s a bit tricky, but maybe…” He concentrated and waved his wand several times. Slowly, a floating squirrel began to appear. It flailed randomly and began attempting to swim through the air as she watched. “Ah, there we go. But what is the significance of that, Miss Granger?”

“Conservation of mass, sir. If it has no existence, then it has no mass. It solves the energy problem of magic, or at least a big part of it.”

That might have been the thing that had most confounded Hermione about magic from when she first entered the magical world. It didn’t obey conservation of energy! She thought conjuring mass was the worst offender, but maybe conjuring didn’t create mass at all. Perhaps it was pure magic wrapped up in a form that behaved as if it had mass because the caster wanted—no, _expected_ it to, but could equally go without—a sort of magical hologram, like on _Star Trek_. Perhaps that was all any magic that _seemed_ to violate conservation of energy did. But no, she remembered their conversation earlier. There _were_ some permanent conjurations—or did even _Aguamenti_ balance the books somewhere?

No, this was Department of Mysteries stuff, she decided. It would take a lifetime of study to tease out those possibilities. Best to just focus on her lessons. For now.

* * *

Since Hermione was an official guest now, rather than an unofficial one (and since the Room of Requirement was now public knowledge), she was housed in the official guest quarters at Hogwarts when she stayed overnight on Friday. A small, unused apartment near Gryffindor Tower had been newly-furnished by the house elves for her use, and it was very pleasant being able to sleep in the old castle again. On Saturday morning, she was to go in for her first lesson with Dumbledore regarding horcruxes.

Here, she really had no idea what to expect, except that she would be studying the vilest of dark rituals to try to find a way to reverse it. Dumbledore would really have rathered not spread such knowledge around, but it was the only way to save Harry, and she would leave no stone unturned whether he wanted to or not.

But Dumbledore didn’t begin by talking about horcruxes. Instead, he asked her about her own studies. “I think it would be best if you explained the elements of the mathematics you have been studying for this project, Hermione,” he said. “I understand you do not have time to explain everything to me, especially as you are now beyond even Septima’s level, but I had hoped you could explain the basics so that I could perhaps guide you in the most promising lines of research—and to warn you against dangerous pitfalls. We are, after all, attempting to delve into the deepest mysteries of magic, and that is never safe. I must remind you at the outset of Adalbert Waffling’s First Fundamental Law of Magic: _‘Tamper with the deepest mysteries—the source of life, the essence of self—only if prepared for consequences of the most extreme and dangerous kind.’”_

“Oh…” Hermione said with a shivered as the weight of what they were doing was impressed upon her. “Of—of course, Professor, I understand…I suppose I can explain the basics to you. I’ve been studying two specific, related fields of maths this summer: algebraic topology and differential geometry. Both of these are in a sense the mathematics of shapes—not geometry—not as you would know it, sir—but in a far broader sense.

“Differential geometry is probably the more intuitive one. It uses calculus to study geometry on manifolds rather than just the plane. Manifolds are…well, it’s complicated in the details, but they’re basically mathematical constructs that look like Euclidean geometry at small scales, but may behave very differently at large scales. They can bend through extra dimensions. They can allow for imaginary distances or complex coordinates. You can’t exactly think of them as normal spaces or surfaces; they’re studied as intrinsic mathematical objects, not something you could see or visualise, but you can still do geometry on them. It’s the mathematics that describes gravity and the structure of the universe, for example.”

“Is it really?” Dumbledore asked. “I was under the impression that ordinary algebra and calculus did that.”

“For Newton’s theory of gravity, it does, but Einstein showed that’s only a special case. Under extreme conditions, you need much more complex maths to describe it.”

“Fascinating. And the other subject?”

“Algebraic topology. It’s…well it’s a little difficult to describe. I suppose you could say it’s the study of different kinds of manifolds and what they have in common. It’s done with group theory, which sort of maps manifolds to other mathematical structures. But the reason I chose it is because I thought there was an important analogy to soul magic. You see, _splitting_ a manifold—separating an arbitrary shape into two disjoint ones—is _breaking_ the rules of topology. So it’s kind of like how a horcrux breaks the normal rules of magic, and I thought it could be useful to understanding the ritual.”

“Very curious. That _does_ sound eerily similar to our problem, especially compared with most of the arithmancy that I know, which is not abstract enough to plumb the nature of the soul. How does this categorising of shapes work, and why is it important?”

Hermione soon found herself giving a crash course in the field and several related topics. She told Dumbledore about the deformations used in topology and which shapes (or which characteristics of shapes, she clarified when asked) were invariant under them; that one of the most important characteristics was the number of holes in a shape; how those characteristics were formally defined in terms of points and sets; how the deformations could be used to analyse complex shapes. A doughnut was the same topological shape as a teacup, she explained, but not a teapot, while even the seemingly-intractable “hole in a hole in a hole” was merely a highly-distorted three-holed doughnut.

Dumbledore was especially interested when she explained that the human body was the same topological shape as a torus (well, technically the nose and ears complicated that, but it wasn’t an exact science when it came to magic), and he pursued that line of thought further. She explained that a torus was topologically a square with opposite pairs of edges glued together. Of course, it took some effort to convince Dumbledore that the torus was actually a flat surface and not a curved one, and that drawing it as a square didn’t make it topologically not a torus as long as you were clear about how the edges were connected. This, she said, was because the torus was in some ways a four-dimensional object, the familiar doughnut shape being an embedding into three-dimensional space (although you could perform differential geometry equally on the flat and embedded tori). Algebraically, it also represented the quotient group of the plane divided by the lattice of integer coordinates, putting it on a firmer mathematical foundation.

And then she went into how, if you glued the edges of a square together in different directions, you could get other shapes: the sphere, the projective plane, and the Klein bottle; the same way you could get either a ring or a Möbius strip by gluing just two of the edges together in different directions.

Despite the complexity of the material, she found that Dumbledore was as attentive a student as Septima. _Student?_ she thought. Well, it did seem appropriate in this context. He caught on quickly, he asked insightful questions, and he pushed her when necessary to explain it to someone who hadn’t had the requisite training—which wasn’t easy at times. She tended to forget what the average dabbler in arithmancy did and didn’t know.

“We seem to be doing a lot of cutting and pasting if it violates the rules of topology,” he commented at one point.

Hermione blushed a little. She hadn’t thought of it like that before. “I suppose so, Professor,” she said, “but these are just explanations for how you can construct them. Proper topology treats the manifolds as if they simply _are_. Or instead, you can think of it that you’re not cutting and pasting at all. The square can still be in the plane except you have boundary conditions where if a point moves off one edge, it magically comes back in from the opposite edge.”

“Ah, I think I see your point. I’ve heard cursebreakers talk of magical traps that functioned that way. And from what you said about not needing an external space for it to exist in, there would be no real difference, would there?”

“Exactly. Topologically, they’re the same shape.”

“Nonetheless, I think your cutting and pasting analogy may be correct for the horcrux ritual. I cannot be certain, but it has a ring of truth to it; pardon the pun. After all, to actually make these marvellous shapes out of physical—or spiritual—substance _would_ require ‘cutting and pasting’, although I should hope it would never reach the degree you describe when it comes to souls.”

“Me neither, but that’s good to hear, sir.” Maybe there was hope for this after all.

Suddenly, Dumbledore looked at a strange contraption of a clock with a start. “Oh my,” he said. “Look at the time. It’s nearly lunch. I suppose we will have to continue this discussion another time.”

Hermione started in surprise. She’d completely lost track of time. They weren’t going to talk about horcruxes? Had Dumbledore just delayed the whole morning so they wouldn’t get into them? “We _are_ actually going to look at the horcrux ritual, aren’t we, Professor?” she asked worriedly.

“Yes, we will, Hermione, but it was important for me to get my bearings with regard to your arithmancy first—for both of our safety’s sake. We will delve into the dark magic at a later date.”

“Oh…of course.”

“I want to thank you, Hermione. It is not often that a man of my age has an opportunity to learn such wonderful new things.”

“Erm, you’re welcome, Professor,” she said, blushing. “I guess I’ll see you again next weekend—Oh, dear.” Her face fell.

“What is it?”

“I just realised I’m going to have to explain all of this all over again to Septima after lunch.”

* * *

In muggle Britain, teens could apply for a provisional driving license at age sixteen and three-quarters, but they were not allowed to start driving lessons until they were seventeen. That was one more reason Hermione was glad she was a witch. While her muggle friends from primary school were (if they were lucky) going in for their first lesson on their seventeenth birthday, Hermione was going in for her full Apparition License.

The test proctor was not her instructor, Mr. Twycross, but a witch in the department named Brewster who seemed as disinterested in the whole thing as Twycross was enthusiastic. “You should know the Apparition point behind the Leaky Cauldron,” Ms. Brewster said. “We’ll be Apparating there. Land on the spot without splinching yourself in one try, without taking excessive time, and you’ll pass. If you can’t do it, you have to wait at least one week before trying again. I’ll be going alongside you to check to make sure you got it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then Apparate on three. One…two…three.”

Hermione concentrated on the spot and spun through the fourth dimension to land lightly on her feet behind the Leaky Cauldron. Ms. Brewster landed by her side with a pop. She scrutinised Hermione very carefully, searching for any reason to fail her. When nothing visibly looked out of place, she waved her wand over her to be sure. “Congratulations, Miss Granger, you’ve passed,” she said, sounding a little bit unhappy about it. “Come back to my office, and I’ll give you your license.” And she vanished again before Hermione could thank her.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed as she watched the spot where Ms. Brewster had been. Idly, she wondered if anyone ever failed the test because they botched the return trip. Or if they took the Knight Bus back to the Ministry just to annoy their proctor. But she successfully Apparated back to the Atrium without any trouble, and a few minutes later, she walked back out to her parents’ car with her new license in hand. At least that was her transportation problem solved.


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not all those who wander are JK Rowling.

“Are you sure you’ll be okay Apparating on your own, Hermione?” Mum asked as she got ready to leave for her next Alchemy lesson.

“Yes, Mum,” she answered. “I’ll be going straight from the front entryway to the gates of Hogwarts, and I can do it very reliably now.”

“Okay, just stay safe.”

“Of course, Mum. I’ll be home late tomorrow evening—probably around supper time. I want to visit Hagrid before I leave. But I’ll be inside the wards the whole time, and I’ll be able to get out fast if I need to.”

“Alright, we get it,” Dad said. “Warn us if you’re going to be any later. We love you.”

“I love you too.” She carried her books to the front entryway of the house and Apparated out. Of course, Hermione could have Apparated from anywhere in the house, but it was common courtesy to Apparate in an out of a wizard home from at least the front doorstep, and there were usually Anti-Apparition Wards on the house itself. Since she couldn’t do that in a muggle area, the front entryway was a good compromise. Hestia Jones still had to let her in the front gate, but other than that, it was the easiest trip to Hogwarts she’d ever had.

Hermione and the other students were especially excited for class today because Professor Dumbledore said they were about to start a new unit: they were going to learn how to _create_ elementals.

“An elemental,” Dumbledore said, “is a beast created and animated by magic composed from a pure alchemical element, or an aspect of it. Each element has one or more types of elementals that can be made from it. Now, normally, we say that magic cannot create life, but this is one of those cases where the rules can be bent. Why is this? What makes elementals different from all other beasts?”

“Well,” Terry Boot suggested, “I know fire elementals only live a few hours.”

“Very good.” Dumbledore wrote _Short-Lived_ on the blackboard. “This is true of all elementals. They can only live a few hours outside of their native element. What else?”

“Um…I don’t think ashwinders eat, Professor,” Daphne said. “Are they even really alive?”

“That is a matter of some debate, Miss Greengress, but for our purposes they are. However, you are correct. All elementals either do not eat, or do not need to eat as part of their life cycle. It is pure magic that sustains them.”

“They’re not flesh and blood, obviously,” said Fawley, the lone Hufflepuff in the class.

“Indeed. Most other magical creatures, even exotic ones like unicorns, are still of the same substance as us, while elementals are not. Another difference?” Dumbledore surveyed the room. “There is one other difference that is of particular importance.”

They wracked their brains. Nothing obvious came to Hermione’s mind, but then, she didn’t know all the elementals. Finally, Avery, the older Slytherin in the class said, “They’re sterile, Professor.”

“Correct, Mr. Avery. Five points to Slytherin. Elementals cannot reproduce on their own. The ashwinder, you might object, lays eggs, but its eggs are sterile, and this is the key difference. Magic can create life through the elementals, but it is not self-sustaining life. It lives only a few hours, and it can produce no issue.

“Now, who was the first alchemist to fully study and categorise the elementals?” he asked.

Hermione thought she knew the answer, but she hesitated. Her background in muggle chemistry had led her to wrong answers more than once before. “Paracelsus is famous for it in the muggle world, Professor,” she said carefully.

Sure enough, her third-hand muggle knowledge had it wrong. “I’m afraid that is a common misconception, Miss Granger, amongst muggles and even some wizards. It was actually Agrippa who catalogued the elementals. Paracelsus is frequently credited with it, but if you read his complete works, you will find that the word _‘elementis’_ never appears. The word he uses is _‘spiritibus’_ —spirits. It also becomes clear that he is not writing about the same thing when he describes the _salamandris_ as a humanoid being of fire, not the six-legged lizard it is. In fact, what Paracelsus was describing were elemental _golems_ —a very advanced craft of which only the finest of alchemists are capable.”

“Can you make them, Professor?” Anthony Goldstein asked.

“I managed it in my youth, Mr. Goldstein. But I have not attempted it since Grindelwald’s War. While they can be useful in battle, I have found there are more effective uses of my time.” He turned and drew a grid of four columns on the board. “Most of you will probably not be familiar with the full list of elementals. There are eight in total. Fire has two elementals, which should be the most familiar to you because they are the easiest to make. They are the salamander, which is made out of embers, and the ashwinder, which is made out of ash. I happen to have some examples prepared for you to examine.”

He wrote the names in the first column, and then, he took a large fire pan that had been burning quietly in the corner and levitated it to his desk. The class rose and crowded around it. In the midst of the flames were a creature that looked like a six-legged lizard made out of hot coals and a grey snake with red eyes whose skin had a texture like ash rather than scales. “Both fire elementals can be created simply by allowing a magical fire to burn unchecked, but we will be covering how to do so in a controlled fashion, since the results can be rather messy.”

And Hermione had seen Bellatrix Lestrange create a dozen or more in minutes purely as a side effect of her spells. She suppressed a shiver.

“The other elementals are more difficult to create and are not as well known, but they are equally useful in terms of producing potions ingredients and other applications.” Dumbledore put back the fire pan and uncovered an aquarium. “There are two water elementals, which mirror the fire elementals: the frost salamander, which is made of ice, and the anguilla, which is made from pure water.”

Hermione looked and saw that the names were quite apt. The frost salamander also looked like a six-legged lizard, but made out of frosty ice, and the anguilla looked like a miniature version of the water tentacle from _The Abyss_ , rising out of the surface of the water and waving around, with no visible body underneath. In water, it was completely invisible.

“There is only one air elemental: the sprite, also known as the will-o’-the-wisp, which I have prepared here.” Dumbledore here indicated a large bell jar in which a pale blue light flew around and around in the confined space. “And finally, there are _three_ earth elementals.” With a few flicks of his wand, the bell jar was replaced with a large terrarium. It had no plants like a typical terrarium, but three types of earth: gravel, sand, what Hermione soon determined was clay, it also had three strange, prehistoric-looking creatures in it.

“These are the least familiar and most difficult elementals to make,” Dumbledore said. “The creature of rock is an acantholith. It can be made from most types of rock, and it rolls in gravel to polish its body. Isolated from its habitat, it dies in a few hours when its exoskeleton fully crystallises and crumbles into quartz.” The acantholith was about two feet long and looked vaguely like a centipede, although it had only sixteen legs. It seemed to be made of cut stones with bits of quartz embedded in its carapace, which it rubbed against the gravel to scrape off. Each leg was a long, straight crystal spine, and it had a matching set of sixteen spines on its back.

“The creature of clay is a keramika, which likewise must live in clay, or its body will dry out. Within the clay, however, it is extremely durable and can reform its shape from almost any injury.” The keramika had a fat, barrel-shaped body about the size of a rabbit with eight stubby legs that curled without joints as it slowly crawled around its habitat.

“And finally, the sand devil,” he said. The last elemental looked almost like an amoeba made of shifting sand, extruding long, tentacle-like pseudopods. “It is unique among the elementals, even the anguilla, in that it does not have a coherent physical body. It can absorb and lose sand from its surroundings without difficulty. These are the full set of elementals, as can be proved using alchemical geometry—”

“Professor, what about phoenixes?” Daphne interrupted. “Aren’t they creatures of fire? And they’re even immortal. Aren’t they elementals?”

“Creatures of fire, yes, but of a very different kind, Miss Greengrass.” Dumbledore said. “The phoenix is one of a very special class of creatures called a Greater Elemental, which share little with common elementals besides the name. Whereas a common elemental is something less than true life, a Greater Elemental is more. They _are_ flesh and blood, but they are also of their element. They are immortal, or near enough to it, and nearly impossible to kill. They have immense magical powers and a deep intelligence that is of a different kind to humans, but greater than most mere animals. In short, they are powerful forces of magic itself. Some say they are fuelled by all the excess magic in the world that goes unused by wizard or beast, but that is far from proved. The phoenix is the Greater Fire Elemental, and the other elements have their own. Does anyone care to venture a guess what they are?”

“I’m…not sure, but…is the thunderbird one of them, Professor?” Cho asked.

“It is, Miss Chang. The thunderbird is the Greater Air Elemental. It controls storms as the phoenix controls fire. Another, perhaps? What of water?”

Hermione thought, but she couldn’t remember any other creatures that were immortal, much less water-based, but Dumbledore continued to give them hints: “A creature, one you might know, that is immortal, and very powerful, and very magical, and at one with the water…?” he said with a twinkle in his eye.

Suddenly, Anthony blurted out, “Bloody hell, the giant squid?!” The rest of the class gasped. It was absurd, but it seemed to have an air of truth to it.

“Very good, Mr. Goldstein. Ten points to Ravenclaw,” Dumbledore answered with a smile. “The giant squid in the Black Lake is an example of the Greater Water Elemental—or call it by its proper name: Kraken. Or an even older name: Leviathan. Our giant squid dates back to the founding of the castle. It is a great deal larger than any mundane squid, and far older, and if you count its tentacles, you will find you are not able to, for they shift as the water itself does.”

Hermione groaned softly.

“Miss Granger?”

“Nothing, sir. I just think I might have nightmares about Cthulhu tonight. Dare I ask what the Greater Earth Elemental is?”

“You should not fear knowledge well used, Miss Granger,” he replied in a scripted response. “The Greater Earth Elemental is the World Serpent.”

Hermione’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She wasn’t even sure how to express what was wrong with that sentence. Fortunately, Cho took up the slack: “Wasn’t Jörmungandr supposed to be a sea serpent, though?”

“It was, in myth, but there are stories of enormous serpents stretching miles in length in many cultures, though true World Serpents are only a few hundred yards: Apep to the Egyptians, Aghasura to the Indians, Zhulong to the Chinese, the Rainbow Serpent to the Australians. Some were said to live in the sea and some on land, and certainly they move through the sea as well as they do the land, but they are fundamentally creatures of earth and stone, not of water.”

“I’ve never even heard of them, Professor,” Cho said.

“I am not surprised. The World Serpents are nearly extinct. Only four or five remain in the world, all in remote, sparsely populated regions with strong earth magic where they mostly burrow underground. Perhaps there is simply not enough free magic in the world to sustain creatures of such size. Or perhaps wizards drove them out from civilisation in antiquity, causing them to fade. Or perhaps there were never many of them, and the tales are exaggerated. We know so little about them that we cannot say.”

 _Well, that_ _’s…surprising_ , Hermione thought. _Though not as unsettling as the giant sq—Wait, a few hundred yards long and burrows underground? Did he just say we have sandworms in the magical world?!_

* * *

Hermione did get over her sudden case of ophidiophobia soon enough to focus on more practical matters after supper. She was in a medieval mood after all the talk of elementals, and she decided it was time to work on her next crafts project. For this, however, she would need someone with intimate knowledge of the weapon in question, and there weren’t many of those people around anymore. So logically, she sought out a ghost.

“Good evening, Sir Nicholas,” she called.

Nearly-Headless Nick turned to her and bowed respectfully, his head tottering. “Good evening, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Sir Nicholas, I was hoping I could ask your help with something.”

Nick swelled with pride. She knew people rarely asked the ghosts for help. “Certainly, Miss Granger, how many I help you?”

“Can you teach me how to use a sword?”

“A sword?” he said in surprise. “A noble calling, to be sure, but a very difficult one. A sword takes years of practice to master.”

“I know, but I don’t need to master it,” she countered. “I just need to be better at it than the Death Eaters.”

The ghost stopped and considered that for a minute, his face creased with concentration. She knew that ghosts had a hard time staying in touch with present-day reality, and he was trying to process this proposition with his fifteenth-century values. “Yes…I suppose that would be an advantage, he said slowly. Most wizards don’t use swords in this day and age.” Then, he literally brightened and grew more eager. “Excellent. I haven’t had a chance to teach swordsmanship in centuries. So, the first thing is to decide what kind of sword you want.”

“I hadn’t really thought about it that much. What do you recommend?”

“It depends on what you intend to use it for. If you merely want a sword for self-defence, then you will probably want a short sword or a light arming sword or, if you can wield a blade that long, a rapier…Unless, of course, you will be defending yourself from creatures, in which case you will most definitely want a spear and a heavier sword such as a falchion.”

“No, no, I’m only worried about wizards—or mostly wizards,” she replied.

“Very good, and do you want a single or a double edge?”

“A double edge, I think. I would have thought the versatility of a two-edged sword would be better.”

“That is true, Miss Granger, but a well-made single-edged sword can be made with a stronger and sharper cutting edge than a double-edged one without sacrificing too much thrusting ability.”

“Oh, that makes sense. But with the materials I’m using, it shouldn’t matter. I definitely want double-edged.”

“I see. I think I know what you need, now. Come this way, Miss Granger. I’ll show you some of the swords from the suits of armour that should fit your needs.”

Nick showed her around the corridors, and Hermione found herself examining the suits of armour in more detail than she ever had before. She jumped the first time one of them came to life and tried to push her away for trying to grab its sword, but Nick told it to stand down. The swords he showed her were remarkably consistent, at least to look at. They were smaller than she expected, the blades all right around two and a half feet long with a cruciform hilt just long enough to fit one gauntleted hand around it. Of course, appearance wasn’t everything. They all had a different weight and balance, and Nick insisted that subtle differences could result in significant changes in cutting power and fighting style, but they still weren’t quite what she was expecting.

“All of these swords seem a little on the small side, Sir Nicholas,” she pointed out. “At least, I haven’t seen any really big ones.”

“And why should that be a surprise, Miss Granger? Longswords require two hands, and witches and wizards _never_ use two-handed swords. You wouldn’t go into battle without your wand, would you?”

Hermione blushed at missing such an obvious fact. “Well, no,” she said, “but what about hand-and-a-half swords?”

Nick frowned. “Hand-and-a-half? I’ve never heard of that kind of sword.”

“You haven’t?”

“No. It certainly wasn’t in use in my time.”

“Huh. Maybe it’s a more modern term…I think I’ve also heard it called a bastard sword?”

Nick tilted his head. “I know the term, but it’s not a distinct type of sword. It means different things to different authorities.”

“No, no, I’m definitely thinking of a distinct type,” Hermione said.

“Hmm…can you describe it, perhaps?”

“Well, it’s…it’s a sword that can be swung with either one or two hands—longer than most of these one-handed swords.”

“Ah, I see,” Nick replied. “Then you would be thinking of a lightweight longsword that is balanced for easy swinging. It’s the type of weapon I might recommend for a muggle shieldmaiden, but a witch should always keep one hand free. If it matters, with a witch’s smaller hands, a two-handed swing should not be too difficult with an arming sword should it become necessary.”

She accepted this, and he coached her in appropriate slashing and thrusting techniques and had her try them on a few blades, explaining how they should feel in her hands. It took until curfew, but she found one that she thought was a good fit for her.

“Yes, I think that will work for you, Miss Granger,” Nick agreed. “If you return in future weeks I can teach you the basics of handling it. And if you ask Professor Dumbledore, perhaps he will allow you to borrow or buy it from the school.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary, Sir Nicholas. I’m going to make my own. I just need to know how to design it.”

“You’ve studied sword-smithing?” he asked in surprise.

“Not exactly, but I’ve developed some spells and runes that help me make high-quality blades. I just need to measure this one. Thank you, Sir Nicholas.”

“You’re most welcome, milady.”

In her guest room, Hermione carefully measured every dimension of the sword she had selected and drew a sketch of it in her notebook. She measured its balance point and, with difficulty, determined its weight with her potions scales. She did make a few small changes. Most notably, after trying a few two-handed swings, she added about an inch to the hilt and changed the shape of the pommel to make that option more available to her. With her design in hand, she could start building it in carbon and tungsten when she got home.

* * *

“I thought that, now that we are both on the same page,” Professor Dumbledore said the next morning, “the next step would be to examine each step in the horcrux ritual in detail to determine its meaning and purpose and search for potential interpretations in your advanced mathematics.”

“Okay, Professor,” Hermione said. That seemed simple enough.

“However, this will require you to learn a fair amount of ritual magic,” he went on. “I caution you, Hermione, that rituals are a dangerous and exacting branch of magic—a branch that is usually considered inherently dark because of its sacrificial element. It is easier to make a mistake than in other magic, and the consequences are generally more severe if you do, much like in alchemy.”

“I know, sir,” she replied. “I…I read up a little on the basics. Professor Slughorn gave me a pass to the Restricted Section here.”

“Did he, now? That _does_ sound like something he would do. I hope you haven’t attempted any of the rituals you discovered in there.”

“Of course not, Professor.” The one she _had_ performed wasn’t in the book, and anyway, it barely qualified as a ritual.

“I see. I will also say that this will not be an easy project. It will be at least as difficult as your work on Gamp’s Law. If it is anything like the ritual magic I have worked with in the past, there will be many possible interpretations of each step. You will have to do the work of determining which combinations of mathematical formulae fit together and which are disallowed, distinguishing the truth from a hundred plausible alternatives, without any opportunity to test the theory. And that is if the problem is even soluble.”

Hermione nodded firmly. “I understand, sir.” A fair amount of mathematical research could be like that. Even parts of her study of Gamp’s Law were like that, and she had no doubt that this project would be even more taxing. Making a horcrux was spoken of like splitting the atom in terms of difficulty (if wizards knew what splitting the atom meant), and analysing the ritual would be equally hard.

Last week, Dumbledore had shown her a book from his private collection called _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ , which, among other things she didn’t want to know about, included detailed instructions on how to make a horcrux. According to Dumbledore, it was the book Voldemort himself had learnt from. The horcrux ritual was a gruesome and involved process with many disturbing steps to be done before and after the murder. She felt sick after she read the description. The actual method of murder was flexible; they knew Voldemort had used a basilisk, poison, and the Killing Curse for some of his, but it had to be done in cold blood. She had been worried it would involve something like mutilation of the corpse, but she remembered that Voldemort’s horcrux victims had been found without a mark on them.

Instead, one of the most disturbing parts of the horcrux ritual was _kissing_ the victim’s still-warm body—on the lips, no less—by analogy with the Dementor’s Kiss stealing their life force. As such, the murder itself could be done by any method that left the victim’s head intact. And it went on from there, including equally disturbing things like carving runes into one’s own flesh without anaesthetic. She was a little surprised Voldemort in his arrogance would tolerate such things.

Since it was Herpo the Foul, the earliest recorded Parselmouth, who had invented the ritual, she supposed she shouldn’t be surprised that another of the steps was biting the tail off a live snake and drinking its blood in a circle of runes—something that came from the iconography of the ouroboros—although for a Parselmouth, doing that to an animal you could actually talk to was a whole other level of disturbing.

Then, there were several components of the ritual that the book said were meant to prepare the soul to be split in a controlled fashion, rather than being cracked as if by a blunt object. Hermione wasn’t really sure what that even meant, nor how the listed steps related to that concept, except that it apparently required Occlumency. That was the part they would really need to focus on interpreting, and worse, Dumbledore suspected that Voldemort had modified that part of the ritual to make multiple horcruxes without slicing off too much of his soul. That wasn’t a good sign.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said. “The most important arithmantic principle of ritual magic is the Law of Equivalent Exchange…”

* * *

“Hey, Hermione, how’d your lesson with Dumbledore go?” Ginny asked at lunch with a probing tone.

“Not so loud,” Hermione whispered. “We actually started the work today, Ginny, but it’s not going to be a simple fix. We’re talking months of work.”

“Harry might not have that long,” she said.

“And a solution might not even exist,” Hermione shot back. “I’m doing the best I can. And I’m working on it outside my lessons with Dumbledore, too.”

“Sorry. I’m just anxious,” Ginny replied awkwardly.

“Harry, how are you doing?” Hermione asked. She’d been so preoccupied she hadn’t talked to him much last night.

“Okay,” he replied, seeming more focused than usual. “Hey, Hermione. I’m working on a new spell. Can you take a look at it for me?”

“Sure. What are you trying to do?”

“String Malfoy up by his robes.”

“Um…Harry?” she said worriedly.

“Malfoy’s been showing off a bunch of new spells,” Ginny explained. “He used one on Harry that hung him upside-down by his ankle.”

“I want to get him back,” Harry said.

Hermione wasn’t sure how to react to that. She was glad to see him focusing on something else rather than losing hope over the horcrux thing (though she’d expected it would be Quidditch), and it was even better to see him stepping up his arithmancy game, but still… “Did you see what spell he used?” she asked. “Could you reverse engineer it?”

“No, it was non-verbal,” he said. “Maybe _you_ could. I can’t. Anyway I can show you my notes if you have time.”

“Of course. I can Apparate on my own now, so I can stay till supper. I’ll take a look later. Speaking of which, I’m going to visit Hagrid after my Arithmancy lesson. Can you all come with me?”

Harry groaned: “Let me guess: he wants to introduce you to his brother?”

“Uh, yes?”

“Ugh, no thanks,” Ron said. “Once was enough.”

“Ditto for me,” Ginny agreed.

“Me too,” said Neville.

Hermione winced. “Was it bad?”

“Hagrid’s brother can rip full-grown trees out of the ground and swing them around, Hermione,” Ron said. “That’s scary any way you slice it. Maybe you can take Luna. She seems to like him.”

“I don’t know why,” Neville piped up. “He picked her up and put her in a tree the first time she met him. We were all freaking out.”

“Merlin’s pants! Was she okay?”

“Okay?” Ginny snorted. “She thought it was fun. You know how Luna is. She said he can help her get her shoes down when the ‘nargles’ put them up a tree.”

Hermione groaned and shook her head. She suspected it wasn’t worth the headache of asking why Luna wouldn’t just use a Summoning Charm. “That’s still happening?” she asked instead.

“It’s her roommates,” Neville said. “I told them off. They’re being nicer to her now, but yeah. She’s too nice for her own good sometimes.”

“Anyway, yeah, I’ll go with you, Hermione,” Harry said, albeit reluctantly.

“Thanks, Harry,” she replied.

After and uneventful Arithmancy lesson, the two of them met up again to head down to Hagrid’s hut. Hermione approached cautiously, and Harry looked tense—alert—though not really apprehensive. The hut itself didn’t look _that_ different, although there was some new damage to the roof. Hermione wondered if Grawp was actually in there. She didn’t think a hut even built on Hagrid’s scale would be adequate to house the giant she remembered seeing from the Astronomy Tower.

“Is he…in there?” she asked nervously.

“Grawp? Nah. Dumbledore wouldn’t let him,” Harry said. “He’s living in this lean-to thing in the Forest. I just hope Hagrid is more cheerful than last time.”

“ _Hagrid_ not cheerful? What happened?”

“He was pretty mad I dropped Magical Creatures. Actually yelled at me.”

“Wow…” Hermione really hoped Hagrid was in a cheerful mood, too. After seeing what he did to the Aurors, she did _not_ want to see him angry. However, Harry didn’t look too worried as he walked up to the door and loudly knocked on it. Hagrid quickly answered.

“Harry. Hermione. Afternoon,” he said. Hermione thought he looked more tired than anything else. “I was wonderin’ if yeh’d ever turn up.”

“Sorry, Hagrid,” Hermione said. “I didn’t have time before I got my Apparition License.”

“Ah, righ’. Bet yeh passed that with flyin’ colours, then.”

“It wasn’t that hard, honestly. From what I’ve heard, a muggle driving test is more difficult. How have you been, Hagrid?”

To her surprise, Hagrid frowned, and tears welled in his eyes as he sat down. “Oh, it’s bin hard this year. I’ve bin worried ‘bout Aragog.”

“Who’s Aragog?” she asked.

“A giant talking spider,” Harry said. He leaned closer and whispered, “I haven’t seen him, and I don’t want to. Apparently, he’s what Hagrid got expelled for.”

“Aye, raised him from an egg, I did,” Hagrid said. “But he’s old now. He took ill over the summer. I bin tryin’ to help him eat better—got me some giant grubs fer him ter eat, but he ain’t…” Then, without warning, he burst into tears.

“Hagrid!” Hermione said. She stood on a chair so she could reach high enough to pat him on the shoulder.

“We’ve bin tergether so long…” he sobbed.

Hermione wasn’t sure what to say. Hagrid had an unhealthy obsession with man-eating monsters, and she had a feeling everyone would be better off _without_ a giant talking spider lurking in the Forest. “I’m…sorry to hear that?” she said uncomfortably.

“The whole Forest’s gettin’ hard to handle,” Hagrid said morosely. Firs’, the centaurs didn’t like havin’ Grawp around. They wanted ter kick him out, but he was too big. The night I had ter run away, they tried anyway. Woulda bin an ugly fight, too, if Dumbledore hadn’t shown up in the mornin’. He made a deal with them. Grawp has ter stay in the Forest. The Ministry won’ let him on the grounds, but he has ter stay up near the edge now. And now, I have ter worry about Aragog’s family—”

“Family?” she squeaked.

“Yeah, the rest o’ the tribe. They’re gettin’ restive, now he can’t control them like he used to. I’m worried about Grawp if they start strayin’.”

Hermione leaned close to Harry and whispered, “Harry, how many giant talking spiders are we talking about?”

“My money’s on too many,” he whispered back. She nodded.

“Er…you wanted me to meet Grawp?” she said hesitantly. She was starting to think this was an even worse idea than she did before.

“Oh, right,” Hagrid said, brightening somewhat. “I’ll show yeh out ter his tent. You’ll like Grawp. He’s a good bloke.”

Harry shook his head firmly at her behind Hagrid’s back. Even Hagrid picked up his oversize crossbow as he headed out, though she suspected that was more for the other creatures in the Forest than for Grawp. They walked a short distance along the tree line, nearer to the thestral paddock, then turned into the trees. They didn’t have all that far to go from there before they could see a tent coming up made from ripped-off tree branches and canvas.

“I’ve got Grawp helpin’ me with the thestrals and hippogriffs when he’s int’rested,” Hagrid explained. “They’re big enough to take care o’ themselves with him.”

“That’s nice,” Hermione said unconvincingly.

They approached the tent and saw a hulking figure sitting within, looking as much like a great lump as a humanoid creature, banging small logs together like drumsticks in a lazy, childish sort of way. Grawp didn’t seem to notice their approach. “Grawpy…oi, Grawpy!” Hagrid called up to him. Hermione was liking this less and less by the minute.

Grawpy grunted and looked down at him. _“Hagger!”_ he said.

“Come on out, Grawpy. I’ve get a new friend fer yeh ter meet.”

Grawp lurched to his feet and stumbled out of the tent. Hermione had seen him once from the Astronomy Tower, but now, in the daylight, she got her first good look at him. She guessed he was sixteen feet tall, or a little more, and very broad. His stoutness was surely necessary to support his weight and was one of the few giant characteristics Hagrid had also inherited. Grawp’s head was surprisingly oversize compared with his body, but he had a sloping forehead that gave him an apelike appearance. His skin was grey and wrinkled like that of a rhinoceros. His hands were also oversize; one of them could have easily wrapped around her waist and picked her up. And Grawp was supposed to be _small_ for a giant.

Hagrid’s father had been a _madman_.

The giant looked down and seemed to recognise Harry, as evidenced by the shout of _“Hah-ree!”_ that might have been an exclamation of glee, but sounded more like the bellow of a wild animal.

“That’s right, Grawpy, Harry’s here,” Hagrid said with exaggerated cheerfulness. “And this is—” He looked back over his shoulder at Hermione. “—Is ‘Hermy’ okay? It’s just, I imagine ‘Hermione’s’ a bit complicated fer him.”

“H-H-Hermy’s fine,” she said, not taking her eyes off Grawp’s huge face. She fingered the handle of her wand.

“This is Hermy, Grawpy,” Hagrid said. “Remember, I said she was comin’ ter visit? A new friend? Remember Grawpy?”

 _“Her-mee!”_ Grawp roared. _“Frend!”_

“Um…hi, Grawp,” she called up to him.

 _“Hi, Her-mee!”_ Without warning, Grawp lunged forward, reaching with a hand the size of a bullmastiff and just as dangerous to grab her around the middle. Thankfully, her reflexes had improved, and she managed to jump backwards and just out of his reach. She screamed, but it didn’t last long as she had her wand out in a blink and pointed at Grawp’s heart.

 _“Grawpy, no! Yeh don’ grab!”_ Hagrid shouted.

“Hagrid make him stay back!” Hermione warned.

Hagrid noticed her wand. “That won’ do any good,” he said. “Magic-resistant, yeh know.”

 _Commotio Cordis takes practically no power to cast,_ she thought. “I can do more than you think, Hagrid.” She could probably amplify the spell by a factor of twenty or thirty if she threw everything she had into it, and since it turned the body against itself, magic resistance might not even apply.

“Jus’ take it easy, now. Giants don’ like it when yeh use magic against ‘em.”

“And I don’t like it when giants try to pick me up,” she said in a low voice. She lowered her wand, but kept it at the ready. “Grawp, please be nice,” she said, hoping he understood enough English to get it.

Grawp made another swipe at her and said something in the Giant language, which sounded like just guttural monosyllables. She started to raise her wand again, but decided against it and pointed with her finger instead. “Grawp!” she said crossly. “Be. Nice.”

Somewhat to her surprise, that made him back off. She didn’t know if he’d got that from his and Hagrid’s mother or from somewhere else, but she was glad it worked. She really didn’t want to have to kill Hagrid’s brother in self defence.

Grawp had a substantial collection of junk, and he decided to entertain her with a bicycle bell. It was actually endearing, in a way. He really did seem like overgrown child. Even his clothes consisted of a vest and loincloth that looked more like an imitation of actual clothing than the real thing—animal skins tied together with whole tendons. She had to wonder how giants could function as a society like that.

No, she corrected herself; that was the wrong way to look at them. It wasn’t about intelligence. Gorillas got on just fine with less intelligence than giants had, and it didn’t mean they couldn’t have a society, albeit a simple one. When she got home, she thought, she was going to look up Jane Goodall’s books, and…who was the one who worked gorillas? Dian Fossey. Maybe that would give her some insight that Hagrid couldn’t.

Grawp was reasonably friendly during their visit, although he wasn’t very talkative and seemed distracted by uprooting trees. Hermione never quite let her wand out of her hands while she was around him, and it was a great relief when they headed back to the castle, though even then, the Forest made her wary.

“Hagrid,” she asked as she saw him looking around alertly as well, “how often do you have to use that crossbow?”

“Oh, not that often,” he said. “Usually, only if I have ter protect students and such. I know how to deal with most o’ the stuff in here meself.”

An odd thought struck her: “Do you ever use a knife here? Or a…a sword?” At his size, those things kind of overlapped.

“Not fer the critters. Never seen much need…Mind yeh, Aragog’s family’s got me a bit worried now…But I think I’d be more comfortable with an axe if it came ter it, truth be told. Never really used a sword before.”

“Huh, I suppose that would make sense,” she said. Either way, she’d have to file that for future reference. She needed to work on her own weapon first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The earth elementals are all based on real creatures: the acantholith on Hallucigenia, the keramika on tardigrades, and the sand devil on the amoeba.
> 
> For the design of Hermione’s sword, picture Aragorn’s sword in the Lord of the Rings, but about two-thirds the length and jet black with silver runes. My information on swords comes mainly from the Shadiversity YouTube channel and Wikipedia.
> 
> Luna’s interaction with Grawp comes from Lego Harry Potter Years 5-7.


	41. Chapter 41

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: ‘Twas brillig, and the JK Rowling did gyre and gimbel in the wabe.
> 
> Big thanks to Ryk E. Spoor AKA voidbuilder for writing a glowing review of The Arithmancer and Lady Archimedes in the blogosphere. You can read his review at grandcentralarena dot com.
> 
> And thanks to guest review Buspelwee for correcting my defibrillator usage. I tried to get it right, but the exact guidelines are surprisingly hard to find.

“So, Runes,” Bill said. “Probably the most diverse branch of magic there is, given how many languages it’s been developed in, and believe me, as a Cursebreaker, I’ve nearly seen it all. Although to be honest, N.E.W.T.-level Ancient Runes is one of the easier classes. If you’ve got a good head for languages, it’s less new concepts and more applying what you already learnt and relearning it in the classical languages of Latin, Greek, and Hebrew.”

“Which I’ve already covered a little bit of at Beauxbatons,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes, Professor Babbling always said she liked their curriculum better, but you were still only there for one year, and there’s a lot of grammar and syntax to learn to use the classical languages effectively. While we work on that, we’ll also get into basic warding, enchanting, cursebreaking fundamentals, and geomancy—the basics of all the magics that runes are commonly used for in practice. Although I understand you’ve already done some of that on your own?”

“Some,” she said. “Just a few practical things.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“No, it’s just, most of them I copied from elsewhere. Here.” She pulled her homemade wand from her skirt. “I’ve been using these for backup. I made it myself—not nearly as good as a professional wand, but I did put some runes on based on my Ollivander wands.”

Bill laughed and then shot her an impressed look when he took a look at the wand. “Just a few practical things, you say, and you’re making your own backup wands? Ha!”

“Well, it still wasn’t all that original,” she said. “Then there’s the Mathemagician’s Map. That was a little more original work, but not that much.”

“Right, Sirius and Remus told me about that. Based on the one the Twins had for a while, right?”

“That’s the one,” she said with a smile. “I actually was wondering if you could take a look at it.”

“Having trouble with the runes?”

“Not as such. More that I don’t understand the architecture of the school.”

“What do you mean?” Bill asked.

“It’s probably easier if I show you.” She unfolded the piece of parchment for him, touched her wand to it, and spoke the pass phrase: “ _Dos moi pa sto, kai tan gan kinaso_.”

The Mathemagician’s Map drew itself out, showing all of Hogwarts in a graphical user interface. Bill was amazed at the spell work and especially the interface that let her shift between images effortlessly. “You are too modest, Hermione,” he said.

“It was really straightforward, honestly. Muggle computers do a lot more than that. But my problem is, no matter what I do, I can’t get it to record the upper levels of the Great Tower.”

“You mean where it starts to get distorted? You’ve been up there?”

“Yes, pretty soon after I started at Hogwarts. But it never shows up on the Map. Look—” She pulled out Colin’s photos. “I had the Creevey brothers take photos of the sections of the anchor stones that describe the geometry of the wards. I’m sure the answer’s there, but I need your help interpreting them.”

“You got photos of the anchor stones?” Bill said worriedly.

“Not all of them. Just the sections relevant to the problem. Do you think you can figure it out?”

“The Hogwarts anchor stones? Probably, but it won’t be easy. Let’s take a look.”

Bill walked her through all the runes he could see while pointing out that they were linked to other parts of the circle that weren’t in the photos. He explained their meaning to her and how they interacted to the best of his ability and interpreted them into arithmancy that she could deal with better. Eventually, despite the physical evidence, he had to admit that the runes were driving him to one clear conclusion.

“According to this, there’s nothing there. The tower ends at the fifteenth floor.”

“But there _is_ more there. I’ve seen it,” Hermione protested.

“I know. So have I, but according to the ward scheme, it’s not part of the castle. I don’t know; do you see anything in the arithmancy that explains it?”

“Like what. All this does is describe the shape of the wards, and—” She stopped and smacked her forehead. “Of course. I should have seen it before,” she said. “It’s obvious once you actually work out what all the runes mean. The equation for the wards has a singularity directly above the tower. There’s a cusp right at the pinnacle where the density of magic is supposed to be infinite. If the total amount is finite, that’s fine, except the Founders didn’t have a concept of the limit, so they just truncated the wards where the top of the tower is from the outside.

Bill’s mouth hung open for a minute. “I see…” he said. “So they didn’t have the arithmantic techniques to fill in the top of the tower with that ward design, and they left a hole, knowing it would fill itself in on its own, which means all that mess at the top of the tower—”

“Is just magic filling in the gap by copying other parts of the castle,” Hermione said.

“And it gets more and more scrambled as the magic gets more concentrated.” He laughed loudly. “Hermione, that’s brilliant. Bloody hell, I could get a circular out of that. Hogwarts isn’t the only place something like that happens. I’ve seen it in tombs.”

“Beauxbatons had a tower with a similar issue,” Hermione said. “It’s probably one of the simpler ways to generate an ward enclosing a building with a stone circle at the bottom.”

“Well, sure it is. It’s a nice, efficient design…say, Hermione, I’ll have to check if anyone’s done it before, but if they haven’t, how would you feel about co-writing a paper with me on this problem.”

Hermione grinned: “I suppose I can spare the time to work out the Arithmancy.”

“Great. So what else have you got?”

She considered for a moment and decided to show it to him. “Keep this one to yourself. I’ve only shown a few people,” she said, and she pulled out one of her geometric gem-crafting diagrams.

Bill’s eyes widened slightly as he studied the diagram. “Alchemy with runes?” he said. “I had no idea you were _this_ far along…In fact, I’m not sure I even understand…What does this actually _do_?”

“It makes diamonds.”

His eyes widened further: “Diamonds…? How?”

“Rearranges the carbon atoms in charcoal into a crystal structure. The maths is trivial. It was just getting the runes to do it precisely that was tricky.”

Bill trembled as the implications hit him. “Oh. Merlin’s Hairy. Arse.”

“Yes, that’s what Septima said,” Hermione replied casually.

“This is…this is incredible,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything like it. But this is scary stuff, Hermione. Whatever you do, don’t ever let the goblins see this.”

“Septima said that too, more or less. I’m being careful. But you know, in thirty years or so, muggles will probably be able to do this anyway.”

“You’re joking!” he said on impulse. He looked at Hermione’s face. “You’re not joking…Oh, crap. That is _not_ gonna end well. Remind me to take an extended holiday in Siberia when _that_ happens.”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Hermione said dryly. “I did have a question, though.”

“What is it?” Bill asked nervously.

“How do you normally do numbers with runes?”

Bill took another look at the diagram and noted how she had done it. “Ah, the Roman numerals,” he said. “Numbers are tricky in general, but Roman numerals are really inefficient. Most advanced warders I know use Greek numerals if they have to. You’ll almost certainly still want to use ratios. Decimals aren’t perfectly precise, and they’re a relatively recent invention, which isn’t a plus when it comes to runes. Of course, you can make almost any system work; Hindu or Chinese numerals or whatever, but I guess there’s not really a super-elegant way to express arbitrary numbers runically, especially if there are fractions involved.”

Hermione nodded and made a note to change her diagrams to Greek numerals, which she honestly probably should have thought to use from the start, especially considering her alter ego was Archimedes.

They got down to business after that, and she found that Bill was right: Ancient Runes was relatively straightforward. Yes, there was a lot of ground to cover, but the basic work of doing things in a new language wasn’t that hard—at least for Latin and Greek. Hebrew was a little trickier—not an Indo-European language, Bill said, and not as widely studied. Hermione was a little surprised that wizards were that familiar with linguistics.

After they got through the lesson, Hermione stuck around for a while. Mrs. Weasley served tea, and they spoke about how things were going. It was still a little bit strained; it was hard not to be with the war going on, but they both enjoyed the company.

Hermione had a lot of questions for Bill about cursebreaking, Gringotts, and goblins, since she’d already taken some interest over the summer. Apparently, most wizards only really dealt with goblins at the bank and knew very little about them, and what they did know was distorted. Bill cautioned that he couldn’t be considered an expert by goblin standards, but he probably understood them better than most.

“So, where did the goblins actually _come_ from?” she asked him. The more she thought about it, the more the existence of goblins and other magical creatures (and magic in general, but she didn’t want to go there just yet) flew in the face of everything she knew about natural history. “They must be an offshoot of humans, but—”

“Whoa,” Bill cut her off. “Don’t let _them_ hear you say that.”

“Oh, sorry. Are they not, then?”

“That’s…that’s some really deep and fraught stuff,” he said. “There’s a lot of debate about it, but they consider it an attack on their pride to even suggest it, so it’s best not to mention it in their presence. Incidentally, what makes you come to that conclusion?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” she said in surprise. “Professor Flitwick. If goblins can interbreed with humans, we must be related somewhere along the line. That’s how biology _works_. But there’s no scientific record that even hints of them.”

“Huh,” Bill replied. He clearly hadn’t expected her answer to be so simple. Of course, she didn’t know if wizards knew much about evolution. “Well, it’s kind of complicated, and it really goes back to the origins of magic, which are even more hotly debated,” he explained. “I’m not qualified to talk about that kind of stuff. Things like that are what the Unspeakables study.”

“But there must be some idea about it,” Hermione suggested. She took a deep breath. It looked like she’d have to go there after all. “Unless you’re going to tell me we have proof that the Earth is only six thousand years old, in which case muggle science goes _completely_ out the window—”

“No, no, nothing like that,” he interrupted. “As far as I know, the Unspeakables have no conflict with muggle science, except that muggles don’t have the theory of magic to complete the picture. But what does that have to do with the origin of magic?”

“It’s more the fact that we _have_ magic and most people don’t,” she corrected. “Do you know what natural selection is?”

“I don’t think so, at least not by name.”

“It’s the principle that heritable traits that help an organism survive are more likely to be passed on to future generations, and they’ll spread in the population…Actually, when I put it that way, it sounds really obvious, but the implications are important. If magic has been around long enough to produce all the magical creatures we see today, including wizards, you’d think it would make them more able to survive, and magic would be all over the place by today, not a trait appearing in one in five thousand humans and I’m guessing a similar ratio of plants and animals.”

Bill looked puzzled, as if he were missing a couple of steps in Hermione’s argument. Trying to piece things together, he asked her, “So…by spreading through the population, you mean…wizards out-breeding muggles?”

“Not exactly. We’ve had Contraceptive Charms for a long time, so we’re a special case, but…Okay, look: were dragons around ten thousand years ago?”

“Not sure. I think so.”

“Well, dragons are huge flying predators that breathe fire and eat all kinds of large animals. Ten thousand years ago, there was pretty much nothing on Earth that could kill them, including the wizards of the time, if I understand my history of magic correctly.”

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at,” Bill said. “You’re asking why the world wasn’t overrun by dragons ages ago before we could fight them.”

“Yes.”

“Honestly, I don’t know. The Unspeakables say that all life produces magic, but why should it be that such a small fraction of life does in significant quantities? I’d just be guessing on that point. But I _think_ I can answer your question as it applies to wizards, and it ties into where the goblins came from.”

“Really?”

“Yes. But keep in mind I’m not an expert on this. I only know the basics of the scholarly work and the public Unspeakable research. _And_ it’s far from universally accepted. But the way I’ve heard it, long before the earliest confirmed records of magic, before the oldest stone circles, when magic was all will and no ritual, it behaved very differently than it does today. What we call accidental magic today was the only magic there was, and accidental magic is powerful, but it’s not as useful as you think. Too hard to control. Magic wouldn’t help a caveman survive the winter, or not by much. It might save him from a cave bear, but so would a spear. But one thing it _would_ do was to enhance something he had a strong emotional affinity for.

“So, for example, a caveman with magic who poured his heart and soul into making the best flint tools for his tribe would find they were stronger and sharper than any other caveman was capable of making, because they were magically enhanced. But it would come at a cost; with no structure to shape the magic like we have now with spells, it would…‘leak’, you might say. It would have other side effects, twisting back on itself, changing its user, making him more suited to working the stone, digging underground, and living in the rock. And over thousands—tens of thousands of years, the Unspeakables believe, such folk became the goblins.”

Hermione stared. That was all surprisingly plausible, given what she knew of magic. But it made it sound like Lamarck was right in the magical world, which made her naturally sceptical of the explanation. Surely, Darwin must reign supreme there, too. That tale could easily be the same kind of just-so story that Lamarck had invented, since it would be just like wizards to characterise goblins as mutated (the word wasn’t said, but it was clearly implied) wizards.

“I’m…I’m not sure I buy that, Bill,” she said uncomfortably.

“Well, not all wizards do,” he admitted. “Many believe the Greek myths, or the Norse ones, or the Biblical stories.”

Biblical stories? Right, of course. _“‘There were giants in the earth in those days,’”_ Hermione quoted, _“‘and also after that, when the sons of God came in unto the daughters of men, and they bare children to them.’”_

Bill nodded: “Yes, that’s the one.  And the goblins have their own creation myths where their ancestors were carved out of the rock by _their_ gods. I think Dumbledore would say that many of the myths of the origin of magic have a grain of truth to them. Maybe magic was given to humans by…what is it muggles talk about? Space aliens?”

Hermione nodded in agreement. Privately, she thought that sounded just as plausible as the Lamarckian theory.

“Right. That’s probably not it, but there are some magical races that _would_ fit the bill there—not literally, but in the sense of having their magical nature thrust upon them in some way. The best example is probably the centaurs.”

“The centaurs?” Hermione asked.

“Yeah, it’s pretty well accepted that centaurs were created by a ritual gone wrong in Ancient Greece that’s been lost to time. Even most centaurs would agree, except that if you asked them, they would say it was a ritual gone _right._ ”

Hermione’s jaw practically hit the floor. The notion that a ritual could be powerful enough create a whole new species of sentient beings was mind-boggling. She’d never heard of anything like it happening in modern times, not since wand-based magic became well-developed. Just when she thought she had a rough idea of the limits of magic, it surprised her again. Heck, maybe even the goblins were the result of a ritual like that, so old that it was lost before rituals as they knew them today were invented.

“Yeah, I know it sounds crazy, but when all you’ve got to work with are stone circles and animal sacrifices, I’m guessing you get pretty good with them.”

“That’s an understatement,” she muttered absently. “So…do things like that explain magical creatures, too, because there’s a lot of things that don’t make sense about them either.”

“Oh? Like what?”

“Well, for one thing, there are an awful lot of humanoid creatures that couldn’t possibly be related to humans—gnomes and fairies and such. Where did they come from?”

“Ah, that part’s easier. If you look at the fairy’s anatomy and life cycle, you’ll find that at their core, they’re still essentially insects. Most pest types of insects tend to avoid wizards more so than muggles, but it’s believed that the few that didn’t were eventually exposed to enough magic to change them mimic our appearance and even a few rudiments of our behaviour.”

“Huh.” That actually sounded like the most reasonable part of this whole thing, though she still had questions. “That’s another thing, though,” she said. “There are an enormous number of mundane insect species compared with birds and mammals, but there are actually fewer species of magical insects.”

“Believe me, there’s plenty. There’s no hope of escaping them in the Amazon. But as I understand it, the scholars think the animals that were closest to prehistoric wizards were most likely to absorb enough magic and change and become magical themselves. And of course, quite a few were deliberately magically created.”

Hermione pondered that for a minute. Maybe she should have kept Magical Creatures after all. No, she never would have had the time. But if she ever _did_ , this was definitely something to look into.

* * *

Being as busy as she was, it took Hermione several weeks to get her sword just right and start practising with it. She thought it looked really good when she was done. She got hung up for a while because the gold protective runes she threaded into the surface didn’t quite give it the look she wanted. Silver would look better, she thought, but silver wasn’t as good a quality of material for runes. However, she looked at her options and found that platinum could be drawn into ultra-thin wires even more easily than gold, and it wasn’t hard for Archimedes Jewellers to get. Thus, her sword had platinum runes protecting it against dirt, fire, acid, blood, and anything else that might damage its molecular edge.

Then, she tried some of the moves Nearly-Headless Nick had taught her in the basement and quickly ran into a problem. It didn’t feel quite right in her hands. The balance was perfect, as far as she could tell, but whenever she struck something (though there were few objects in the house she could test it on without damaging them), it didn’t handle as smoothly as the steel swords at the castle. It jarred her wrists more than it should have, and her control wasn’t quite as good.

Thus, the day before the first Hogsmeade visit, Hermione wore her sword to the castle in its carbon nanotube scabbard on a belt under her robe in order to get a second opinion. Wearing a sword was an anachronism even for wizards, but she thought it looked surprisingly good.

Professor Jones noticed at once and confronted her. “I’m not certain you should be bringing a sword to school, Miss Granger,” she said.

“Why not, Professor? It would be the work of half a minute to get hold of a sword once I’m _in_ school.”

“Well, it’s just…it sends a message carrying a weapon into school like that.”

“Other than a wand, you mean?”

Professor Jones glared at her: “They’re not seen the same way.”

“Perhaps not, but the Hogwarts rules do say qualified students are permitted to carry swords on the grounds.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Professor. I don’t think that rule’s been changed since the seventeen hundreds, but it says it.”

There was an old urban legend about a student at Oxford or Cambridge who cited the centuries-old school rules to demand cakes and ale during an exam, but was then fined for not wearing his sword to the exam like a proper gentleman. There was no evidence that it was true, but Hermione was surprised to find that there _was_ a rule at Hogwarts that said she was allowed to carry a sword, so she was going to have fun with it.

After dinner, she sought out Nearly-Headless Nick again and showed him the sword. He was impressed.

“It looks a fine blade,” Sir Nicholas said. “And you truly made it yourself?”

“Yes, I did. I invented a series of spells that let me work the materials in ways that wouldn’t normally be possible.”

“Very impressive. And what _is_ that material. It looks like a well-made arming sword, but I don’t recognise the colour.”

“It’s called carbon nanotube, Sir Nicholas. It was only recently invented. It’s a lot like diamond, but less brittle.”

“Good Lord, a diamond sword?” Nick said. “That would be the stuff of legends. Even with magic I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“That’s because muggles came up with it,” she told him proudly, “but it doesn’t quite handle like you told me before.” She explained her problem with controlling the blade, but it was hard to get across without knowing the technical jargon, and after showing him a few swings, she decided they should go to the Room of Requirement, where she asked for targets that were strong enough to stand up to it and showed him that way. Once she had that set up, it didn’t take him very long to figure it out.

“I think I see your problem, Miss Granger,” he said. “Your sword is far too hard. A steel sword is tempered to bend more and absorb some of the impacts that you are feeling in your arms. Without that tempering, it glances off the targets more strongly and hurts your control. And you shouldn’t use a sword that stiff in any case. It would be far too brittle to hold up in battle.”

“Not this one, Sir Nicholas,” she said. “Carbon nanotubes are much stronger than steel. No human arm can swing this hard enough to break it, and it’s sharp enough to cut much deeper than any steel blade can.”

“Really? You said it was like diamond, but that seems fantastical.”

“It’s really not. Here, I’ll show you.” Hermione thought back to a television show she saw once and requested the Room to produce test targets for her. Wood, tatami mats, and bamboo appeared. Using the techniques Nick had taught her, albeit with two-handed swings, she sliced through each of them easily with the speed and power of a samurai wielding a katana.

“Goodness me!” Nick exclaimed. “What is this strange art? We never did that in my time.”

“Oh, I know. This is what they do in Japan.”

“I see. Well, I stand corrected, Miss Granger. I have never seen a sword as fine that was not goblin-made.”

“Thank you, Sir Nicholas. But are there any techniques that can be used with a stiffer blade so it’s easier to control?”

“A few, but mainly, it will simply require greater care and precision to wield it as well as you could a steel blade.”

Hermione thought and decided she could live with that. He smiled and showed him her wand—the wand that was slenderer than average and had no well-defined handle, such that it needed that little bit more care and precision in spellcasting—and that wand had served her well through her most complex spellcrafting. “Precision?” she said. “Precision is something I can do.”

Nick again seemed pleased to be able to teach someone the art of swordsmanship. Under his guidance, she refined her technique for her new sword, and while she was still at a beginner level, she would bet she could do more than most of the Death Eaters could with a blade. She was definitely satisfied with her progress by the end of the evening.

“You know,” she said, “I hope I don’t ever have to use it, but it would be nice to know how this thing fares against people, just in case.”

Hermione jumped as another target appeared, and she was certain that the Room must have a sense of humour. Her target was a whole pig carcass on a table. “What the—!” she squeaked. “I didn’t order this.”

“It would seem that the Room provides,” Nick said. “I daresay a number of the house elves are very confused right now—”

_Pop!_

“Who is taking the pig? We is needing it for breakfast—Miss Hermione?” an elf with scraggly blond hair and cobalt-blue eyes said.

“Sonya, hi,” Hermione said. “It’s good to see you.”

“I is happy to see you too, Miss Hermione,” the elf said, “but what is you doing?”

“I was testing my new sword, and I guess the Room gave me a pig to try it on. I wasn’t really planning it. You can have it back…although I think I _would_ like to try cutting it.”

“Cutting a pig with a sword?” Sonya said in disbelief.

“Well, it can’t be too hard. They do it in Japan.” Before she could talk herself out of it, Hermione took a step towards the table, raised her hands over her head, and brought her sword down with a mighty _CRACK!_

All three of them stared in disbelief, and Sonya squeaked loudly. The pig was cut cleanly in two through the middle, and the sword left a long score mark in the table. Hermione held up her blade and stared at it in awe and a little fear, knowing full well that if it could do this to a pig carcass, it could do it to a human.

“Truly a powerful blade to do that in the hands of an untrained witch,” Nick said, bowing to her. “I apologise for doubting you, Miss Granger. May I ask what is its name?”

“Its…name?” she said in confusion.

“Yes. All great swords should have names of their own.”

“Huh…” Hermione had known that was typical in fantasy and some classical myths, but she hadn’t really thought about giving her sword a name. She supposed it _was_ unique. It was probably the strongest and sharpest human-made sword in the world right now. (She’d been going to extremes a lot lately.) She didn’t have many ideas, but as she thought, one came to her that she thought suited the black blade perfectly. “I have just the name for it,” she said.

In her guest quarters that night, Hermione added another line of platinum runes to her blade—a vertical line like the letters that spelt out Godric Gryffindor’s name on the Sword of Gryffindor, except this one spelt out the name of the sword itself:

ᛊᚾᛁᚲᛖᚱᛊᚾᛇᚲ

Snickersnack.

* * *

Hermione joined her friends the next morning for a walk down to Hogsmeade to spend some time there before she Apparated home. The fact that George and Fred were also going to meet them in the village was another good reason. She wore her sword on her belt again, feeling considerably more confident about it today. Objectively, her wands would be much more useful, but there was just something about a sword that reminded her of her childhood reading _The Lord of the Rings_ , _The Chronicles of Narnia_ , and _The Once and Future King_ that made her feel that much safer.

“Well, you gotta admit, it looks pretty cool,” said Ron. “Not that useful, mind, but cool.”

“It could be useful,” Ginny said. “Harry killed Slytherin’s basilisk with a sword, didn’t he?”

“I don’t know if it’ll help much,” Harry said, “but I guess it’s good to be prepared.”

“I’m working on a shield, too,” Hermione told them. “Maybe something like a buckler that’ll leave my hand free, but that will still block spells.”

“Now _that_ could be useful,” Harry said. “Remember how Voldemort conjured a shield to stop Dumbledore’s spells?”

“That’s where I got the idea. I just need to figure out what thickness of carbon nanotubes will block strong curses. I wish I could test it on Unforgivables, but I don’t know if anyone we know would be willing to cast them.”

“Moody might,” Ron said.

“Or he might tie me to a wall and test me to see if I’m a traitor just for suggesting it,” Hermione countered.

Harry got quiet and thoughtful for a minute. “Snape might do it,” he said. “He’s a Death Eater. I know he’s used them before.”

“You wanna trust him with that?” Ron said incredulously.

Hermione stroked her chin. “Dumbledore trusts him,” she said. “And I wouldn’t have to be in the same room with him…I’ll think about it.”

They met George and Fred at the Three Broomsticks, and the twins got up to their usual antics as soon as they arrived, shamelessly flirting with Madam Rosmerta (until Hermione intervened with George), trying to get Seamus Finnigan drunk enough to sing “Finnegan’s Wake” in public, and buying Hermione a Firewhisky, which she did not approve of.

“I really shouldn’t,” she said.

“Come on, Hermione, you’re of age now,” George said. “Live a little.”

“Yeah, we should’ve done this weeks ago on your seventeenth,” Fred agreed. “You’ve got to at least try it. It’s a right of passage.”

Eventually, she gave a little to get them to shut up about it. “Alright, but just one,” she said. “I _do_ have to Apparate home.”

Madam Rosmerta poured out a shot of Firewhisky for her, and she eyed it suspiciously. This was probably a bad idea.

“Careful,” Seamus said. “‘S got a real kick to it.”

“Yeah, better just sip it,” Fred agreed.

Hermione turned and shot the boys a defiant look. That was a challenge if she ever heard one. _I_ _’ll show them_ , she thought. _I_ _’m a dentists’ daughter. I can handle this._ Snatching the shot glass off the bar, she braced herself, knocked it back in one gulp, and slapped it back down upside down.

And her mouth and throat were on fire. Her eyes were rapidly tearing up, and she felt an almost overpowering urge to cough her lungs out, but she somehow managed not to otherwise let it show on her face. Her fellow Gryffindors cheered.

“Wow, Mum and Dad were right,” she said, licking her lips, then coughed twice. “Scotch, hot sauce, and gunpowder.”

George stared at her with wide eyes and a lovestruck grin on his face. “That was bloody brilliant,” he said.

“That was—” She coughed again and tried to blink the tears away. “—painful.”

“Yeah, but you don’t just knock back a Firewhisky like that on your first try. How’d you do that?”

“Sheer nerve, I assure you.” She winced and coughed again.

“Oh, so the mudblood thinks she can play with the proper wizards,” another voice called loudly, and Draco Malfoy came up and leaned on the bar.

“Don’t call Hermione that!” George yelled. He lunged for Malfoy.

“George!” Hermione snapped. “Honestly, I stopped caring ages ago. Come on, Malfoy’s not worth our time.”

Surprisingly, Malfoy was staying casual, not blowing up at the slight, not that he ignored it either. “To good for us purebloods, Granger?” he said.

She looked over her shoulder. “No—” _Cough_. “—just you.”

“Right. That’d be more impressive if you weren’t still coughing over your Firewhisky.”

“Oh yeah, I’d like to see you try that, Malfoy,” Fred said.

Malfoy grinned and clicked his fingers twice to get Madam Rosmerta’s attention. He dropped two sickles on the bar and said, “Hit me.”

Rosmerta glared at him: “You’re underage, Malfoy.”

Malfoy rolled his eyes and looked around. He soon spotted Warrington, a Slytherin who had graduated last spring, who had an untouched Firewhisky in front of him. He motioned to him, and Warrington handed it to him. Before Madam Rosmerta could stop him, he knocked it back without flinching. “You were saying, Weasley?” he said smugly.

“That’s it. Both of you. Out,” Rosmerta interrupted, pointed at Malfoy and Warrington. “No giving drinks to underage kids.”

“Fine. I’m done with these losers, anyway.” Malfoy took it in stride and casually walked out of the pub. Harry followed him. His friends immediately got up to follow, sensing trouble.

Sure enough, Harry confronted the Slytherin just outside. “Alright, what are you playing at, Malfoy?” he said.

In the daylight, Malfoy looked paler and thinner than usual. Hermione knew the signs of sleep deprivation, and she could see them written all over his face. But he still sounded confident getting in Harry’s face. “Just putting Granger in her place, Potter,” he said.

“My place as not as good a drinker as you?” Hermione deadpanned. “I’m not feeling too disappointed.”

“Your place beneath us at everything, mudblood. You may do some fancy tricks with numbers, but that’ll never make up for your poor breeding. I mean, _look_ at you. Carrying a sword?”

 _Poor breeding?_ she thought. _What_ is _he playing at? He sounds like a parody of himself. Or drunk._ “Yes, I carry a sword, now, Malfoy,” she said. “Swords are cool.”

“All the best muggle heroes carry swords,” George played along.

“Plenty of wizards did too until they went out of fashion,” Fred agreed.

“Well, muggle-lovers _would_ say that.” Malfoy paused and glanced around before turning and sauntering up towards the castle.

Hermione, Harry, and the Weasleys looked around at each other, wondering what that was all about, when they heard a commotion from the other direction. They soon saw Cedric Diggory and Cho Chang on a date, coming up the path from the general direction of Madam Puddifoot’s in the middle of a heated argument.

“Cho, what are you doing?” Cedric asked.

“I have to give this to Dumbledore,” she said flatly.

“Dumbledore? Why? What is it?”

“It’s nothing to do with you, Cedric.”

“Nothing to do with—Cho, what are you talking about? Why are you giving _anything_ to Dumbledore.”

“I just have to do it,” she said, her voice rising.

“Hold up, you’re not acting—normal. Where did you get that package?”

“Cedric, get away!” she shrieked.

“Cho, give me the package.”

“No!”

He grabbed for it. “Cho, something’s wrong!” he said. “You have to give me the package!”

“I said let _go!_ ” Cho slapped Cedric, but at the same time, there was a sound of paper ripping. Hermione saw a flash of something blue, and then, without warning, Cho rose into the air, gracefully, like a swan, her arms outstretched. Suddenly, she let out an ear-piercing scream so loud it hurt Hermione’s ears, then quickly growing ragged and stopping abruptly, as if her vocal cords had torn. Then, just as suddenly, she fell to the ground limp.

“Cho? Cho!” Cedric yelled. Someone kicked away the opal necklace that had fallen between them, but Hermione barely registered it. “Cho, wake up! Someone get help! She’s not breathing!”

Hermione didn’t hesitate. She rushed to Cho’s side and checked her pulse. She felt the colour drain from her own face when she felt nothing. She drew her wand on instinct. “Cedric, get away!” she shouted.

“What?” he said.

But she didn’t wait. She shoved Cedric away, pointed her wand at Cho’s heart and cast, _“Defibrillosus!”_ Cho’s body jerked once and lay still. She checked her pulse again. Still nothing. No use trying the spell again, then. She knew that much. Cedric tried to grab her, but Hermione shoved him away a second time and started doing CPR. She pressed down hard on Cho’s chest five times, then pointed her wand at her throat and cast _“Anapneo.”_ Her body breathed once and went still again. Still no pulse. Dammit, why didn’t she invent a Pacemaker Spell? She tried it again. Cedric caught on and cast the Breathing Charm for her, but Cho still wouldn’t respond. Still, they kept at it. It was only when Auror Tonks came over and cast a spell she didn’t recognise, frowning sadly, that she knew. Tonks immediately pulled her away from the body and said, “I’m sorry, Hermione. She’s gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Defibrillosus: stylised Latin form for the English “defibrillated”.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: What can get through a magical shield? JK Rowling.
> 
> Well, that escalated quickly. I didn’t see that coming myself until I actually wrote the chapter. It was still going to be Katie and only severely injured like in canon literally until I typed Cho’s name on the screen. This is what authors mean when they say the story takes control.
> 
> Several reviewers wanted to know why Cho died when Katie didn’t. The answer is simple: Cho wasn’t wearing gloves.
> 
> To Buspelwee: I don’t normally respond to guest reviews here, but I feel this is an important point. My intention was for Hermione to give Cho emergency care exactly correctly. I did look up the circumstances under which a defibrillator is and is not indicated, but I couldn’t find the exact guidelines for its use. I’ve since corrected the previous chapter based on your information. Thanks for the help.

“So what did the curse actually _do_ to her?” Hermione asked in the next Alchemy lesson. “I mean, floating six feet in the air doesn’t exactly correlate with ‘instant death’, and she was screaming in agony, but we didn’t see any physical injuries even after…after it was over.”

Dumbledore looked considerably older and more worn today as he faced the class, now with just nine people in it. He regarded them sadly and said, “This being the Alchemy class, and the closest class we offer to the study of curses of that sort, I will tell you, since forewarned is forearmed, in the end. I am trusting you not to use this information irresponsibly.” He fixed his gaze on each of them in turn. “I will also give anyone who wishes to leave this conversation the opportunity to do so.”

No one left, although a couple of the Ravenclaws looked like they were thinking about it.

“Very well…It was curs- _es_ , Miss Granger. Plural,” he replied. “The Levitation Curse was merely for show, I believe—to make Miss Chang more visible and to make an example of her. As for the rest…I’m afraid it was nerve damage. A sort of mingled Killing Curse and Cruciatus Curse that burns the nervous system from the inside out in seconds, leaving no mark on the body, infused into the necklace by a dark ritual, on which I shall not elaborate. I’m afraid there was nothing you could have done for her, Miss Granger, despite your admirable efforts.”

That answered most of Hermione’s questions. In a way, it could have been worse, knowing as she did that there were curses out there that could affect one’s entire bloodline, but it was still horrific. But even so, there was one thing that was still nagging at her. “Professor,” she said, “something doesn’t make sense about that necklace—just the fact that it exists, really. I mean, that curse seems like massive overkill—like it was a hundred times more powerful than it needed to be. If just brushing across the back of her hand was enough to kill her, it would have been impossible to actually _wear_ it, which kind of defeats the purpose. And it would be impossible to cover up. The trail of bodies it would leave…” She saw everyone staring at her worriedly and trailed off. She gazed down at her desk in embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I get like this when things don’t add up. I can’t let them go.”

“I do understand your confusion, Miss Granger. Do not worry,” Dumbledore replied kindly. “You are right; there would seem to be little practical use for a cursed object that deadly, even for a truly evil person. And yet people do make them. In my experience, there are two possible reasons for it, neither necessarily wicked, but both highly questionable and very dangerous. The first reason is an overzealous anti-theft curse for a display piece or, more commonly, a tomb, where it is not intended ever to be moved, much less worn. And the second is as a proof of concept, merely to show that they can do it. Nonetheless, such items all too often fall into evil hands.

Dumbledore answered a few more questions from the class before beginning the lesson. Hermione still wasn’t caught up on recent events, having been away from the castle, but she waited till class was over to finish the discussion since. She came up to Dumbledore as the others left and said, “Excuse me, Professor, but I haven’t been here since—since Saturday, and I don’t trust the newspapers. Can you tell me what the investigation turned up? How it happened?”

“Of course, Hermione,” he answered. “We know that Mr. Diggory and Miss Chang were on a date at Madam Puddifoot’s before the incident. Mr. Diggory reported that Miss Chang was behaving oddly after visiting the washroom in the tea shop and was carrying package back to the castle that she did not have before. While we cannot be absolutely certain, I strongly believe that she was Imperiused by Madam Puddifoot herself in the washroom.”

“Madam Puddifoot?” Hermione gasped. She’d never heard her name mentioned in any way in connection with the Death Eaters.

“Upon questioning, Madam Puddifoot began behaving oddly, and we discovered that she was _also_ Imperiused. Unfortunately, her memory of the event is not clear. She did not know who cursed her or when, nor does she even remember her interaction with Miss Chang clearly. I’m afraid the trail goes cold with her.”

Well, that was…worrying. “How far does _that_ go?” she asked. “Could Voldemort Imperius everyone through a chain like that?”

“Fortunately not. Even two degrees of separation is difficult. An Imperius Curse cast by someone who is already Imperiused will last only a short while, and it is likely that had Miss Chang been ordered to cast it on a third person, she would not have been able to do it. It was just enough for her to attempt to bring the cursed necklace to me, a plan that would undoubtedly have failed regardless.”

She felt a chill go through her. “So someone was trying to kill you?” she said.

“Hermione, _that_ is hardly a surprise,” Dumbledore said. “What _is_ surprising is that it was such a halfhearted assassination attempt, which tragically claimed the life of a student.” He stopped at that, and she soon realised he didn’t want to say more on the subject.

“What about the necklace, sir?” she tried to angle for a little more. “Do you know where it came from?”

“It is still under investigation, Hermione. I will inform you if there is anything else you need to know,” he said.

* * *

“That’s all he would tell me,” she told Harry at dinner. “I think he knows more, but he’s not saying.”

“He does,” Harry said. “He wouldn’t tell us any more either, but I already told him I saw that necklace before.”

“You did? Where? When?”

“Four years ago in Borgin and Burkes. Remember that time I came out the wrong Floo? It was there in the shop.”

“So a Death Eater bought it from there and passed it on to Madam Puddifoot.”

“I think it was Malfoy,” Harry said.

“Malfoy?” Hermione said. She thought back to Saturday. That didn’t add up at all. “Why? And more importantly, how? He was talking to us when it happened.”

“He could have Imperiused Madam Puddifoot before that, though. And he was acting weird on Saturday. Maybe it was a distraction, or he was setting up an alibi.”

Hermione thought for a minute. It _could_ fit, and it was devious enough for him, but they had no real evidence.

“I dunno,” Ron said. “I think it sounds pretty half-baked myself. I mean, really, Malfoy trying to kill Dumbledore?”

“He definitely would if he could,” Harry pointed out.

“Well, sure, but there’s no way he could pull it off.”

“That’s a good point,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore told me there was no way that plan could have worked.”

“That doesn’t mean it wasn’t him,” Harry insisted.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong, Harry, but anyone could have bought that necklace in the past four years. We can’t prove anything.”

“Why not? The necklace—”

“Harry, even if Malfoy _was_ behind it, and even if Borgin kept accurate records, which he probably didn’t, if Malfoy was smart, he would’ve had a third party buy it and pass it to him, especially with all the dark detectors scanning everything coming into the castle.”

“Hmm…” Harry pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to reason his way out of that. “There’s gotta be something,” he said.

Ginny nudged him with her elbow. “Hey, cheer up,” she said. “We’ll figure something out. Have you figured out where he’s sneaking off to yet?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Sneaking off?” Hermione said.

“Malfoy’s been disappearing a lot of the time,” Harry said. “It was weird seeing him in Hogsmeade ‘cause I’ve hardly seen him around otherwise. I think he’s up to something.”

That sounded…a little obsessive, Hermione thought…although it was true, Malfoy had liked being the centre of attention in past years. A change in behaviour _could_ mean something. “I suppose I could ask Daphne and Tracey if they know anything,” she suggested. “I don’t know if they’d tell me even if they do, though.”

“Yeah, maybe. Hey, wait, doesn’t your version of the Marauder’s Map let you track people’s movements.”

Hermione’s face brightened: “Yes, it does.”

“Can you have it follow Malfoy around for a couple days?”

“Sure, that’s easy. It won’t really tell you what he was doing when, but it’ll show if he goes anywhere strange or leaves the castle. I’ll tell you on Friday what it shows.”

“Great. Thanks, Hermione.”

* * *

_Four days earlier_

“That was a very foolish move, little Dwakee.”

“I’m…I’m doing my best, Aunt Bella,” Draco said.

“Are you?” Bellatrix Lestrange asked, stepping out from her place in the shadows. “Your plan failed, and failed badly.”

“The Chang girl? No one can prove that was me. Hell, _you_ can’t prove it was—”

He stopped as Bellatrix lunged towards him and put her wand to his throat. “Don’t lie to me, Draco! You’re _still_ piss-poor at it,” she hissed. “That was a stupid plan, and it had you written all over it.”

“It—it wasn’t stupid—”

“Dumbledore wasn’t even _at_ the school today! And could a cursed necklace like that really get past their pet squib? Hmm?” She walked around him, tracing her wand around his neck like the point of a knife. “Even if it did, Dumbledore’s not dumb enough not to check it for curses himself. All you did was get a student killed.”

“She was a half-blood. And one of Dumbledore’s Stupid Army,” Draco insisted. “No great loss.”

“You attracted _attention_ ,” Bellatrix said. “Attention that _you_ can’t afford right now. The Aurors will be even more on guard from now on. You have no allies in the school besides those lumps you call minions and the Parkinson bint. I am _not_ convinced of Snape’s loyalty. He would not make the Unbreakable Vow to protect you. Not even when dear Cissy begged him.”

“He’s a spy. He can’t afford—”

“Or he’s hedging his bets! He’s served Dumbledore four times longer than he served the Dark Lord. Who knows what happened during that time? I don’t care what book he gave you or what fancy spells. Do _not_ trust him.” She backed off and took a deep breath. “I’m doing this as a favour to your mother, Draco. As far as I’m concerned, you haven’t earned that Mark on your arm. Not by a long shot. But I still love my sister, and she asked me to keep you alive. Do _not_ make this job any _harder_ for me.”

“That wasn’t my only plan,” he insisted.

“It better not have been. The Dark Lord is not pleased.”

Draco’s blood ran cold. “What?” he whispered.

“What? What?” Bellatrix said in a false little-girl voice. “What, little Dwakee? Your plan was doomed to failure, and you attracted unwanted attention to yourself. The Dark Lord knows, and he wonders if you are really trying.”

Looking very pale now, Draco tried to rally: “I _am_ trying. I’m working on a way to get past the security. I do that, and it’ll be easy to overpower him in the school. We can surround him with no Apparition. He’s too dedicated to protecting his precious students to run.”

Bellatrix tilted her head. “Huh,” she said. “That could actually work. But you’d better not blow it, Dwakee. You don’t need me to tell you you don’t want to screw up again. Now tell me more about this plan of yours.”

* * *

Hermione waited for Professor Jones to escort her back to the gate after supper, but to her surprise, it seemed Jones had other ideas. “Miss Granger, I’d like to speak to you in my office for a few minutes,” she said.

“Um, okay,” Hermione said warily, resolving to stay alert. Yes, Jones was an Order member, but she was also the _Defence Professor_ and was acting just a little oddly. It was hard to be too paranoid these days.

However, Jones calmly sat down at her desk and motioned for her to sit across from her. “I’ve been thinking about the spells you taught that secret club of yours last year, Granger,” she said.

“Well, it was more Harry than me—”

“I meant the ones you invented,” Jones said snappishly.

“Oh, those. What about them?”

“Astoria Greengrass tells me that you taught her as well.”

“Sure, for a little while. Why?”

“I’m aware of Miss Greengrass’s fragile condition, Miss Granger. She consistently performs well below her grade level at practical magic, especially in exercises where endurance is required. And yet you were able to teach her spells that increased her effectiveness in my class significantly—spells that are apparently suitable for second-year students?”

“Yes, because they’re more efficient,” Hermione said. “Professor, I don’t understand what you’re driving at.” Honestly, it wasn’t just tonight. Professor Jones had been behaving oddly towards her all year—cold and almost spiteful for no apparent reason. Why was she taking such an interest now?

“Granger, I want you to come in and teach some of the younger classes,” Jones said.

Hermione blinked in disbelief. That was the last thing she expected. “Teach some of your classes?” she said. “But why? I’m not qualified to teach.”

“And you think I am, Granger? Let me tell you a secret: _no one_ _’s_ been qualified for this job in the past ten years.”

“What? That can’t be. Remus was—”

“A werewolf,” Jones interrupted. “Qualified in Defence, but not actually qualified as a teacher. Moody was the same, even if he hadn’t been a fake. Quirrell did his walkabout, but he never actually got a certificate in the subject. It’s the same story every year. It doesn’t matter if you’re not certified. The important thing is that you can _teach_. And _you_ _’ve_ got tricks up your sleeve that the younger students can use that the curriculum doesn’t. You could be a real asset.”

“Oh…well…I’m flattered, Professor, but I wouldn’t want to impose. You’re the teacher, after all. I could just show you my spellbook instead—”

“Granger, if I wanted to see your spellbook, I’d have asked to see your spellbook,” Jones snapped. “You think I want this job? The position’s cursed! And I never had any interest in teaching anyway. I’m only here because I got bumped down to a desk job when I lost my arm, and _then_ , since I was the only person Dumbledore trusts who was expendable, I got stuck here. The least you can do is take over a few shifts for me.”

“What? What do you mean, the least I can do?” Hermione demanded.

“I mean you _owe_ me Granger!” Jones shouted. “Don’t you remember how I lost my arm? Thorfinn Rowle cursed it off while I was on guard duty with the Prime Minister. Guard duty I was only _on_ because _you_ made Emmeline Vance miss her shift.”

Hermione gasped. “That was…You were…Professor, I had no idea! No one ever told me!” she said.

“Well, now you know,” Jones said waspishly. “Maybe next time you should think about the consequences of your actions.”

“Ma’am, I am _so_ sorry. I didn’t know anything about the shift schedules or— _anything_. I was just trying to help Harry.”

“We kept Potter safe, Granger. We set our plans for a _reason_. You don’t get to change them just because you want your friend to come out to play.”

“It wasn’t like that! It wasn’t just to give him freedom of movement. I gave Harry an extra layer of protection—legal protection.” Her voice turned hard. “Protection he _needed_ last year when the _guards_ weren’t enough.” Protection that wasn’t entirely legal in itself, she reminded herself, but that was already an open secret within the Order, so that wasn’t really the issue. “Look, I’m really sorry this happened to you, but I don’t know what would have happened if Emmeline Vance had gone on her shift, and neither do you. She wasn’t a qualified Auror, was she?”

“That’s not the point! Did you ever think to ask Dumbledore about it instead of just doing it?”

Hermione opened her mouth to rebut her—to say that she wasn’t part of the Order and didn’t have to answer to them, that Dumbledore wouldn’t have gone for it because it was technically illegal, that she didn’t fully trust him because of his own screw-ups. But her words died on her lips. Maybe Dumbledore wasn’t an option, but there still were other people she could have talked to, even with her parents keeping her on a short leash. Her head dropped. “You’re right,” she said. “I had other options. I just got so used to having to do everything myself last year because _no one_ was being cooperative that I didn’t think about it. I don’t regret doing what I did to help Harry, but I’m sorry you got hurt because of it. I wish I could do more for you. I…I learnt left-handed casting a while back. I don’t know if I could help you at all with that. But…but if you show me the schedule, I’ll talk to my parents about guest lecturing.”

After copying down Jones’s schedule, Hermione left as fast as she could. She felt sick. She made it off the grounds, but it was a near thing. As soon as she Apparated home, she collapsed in tears and probably scared her parents half to death. She told them what had happened and how terrible she felt about it, but they unfortunately didn’t have any clear answers for her. They were more sympathetic to her side of the story given all the things she’d told them last year about Dumbledore’s and the Ministry’s mistakes, but they also agreed with her assessment that she could have done more to make sure no one else got hurt. It was a complicated issue. Mum and Dad had never been entirely comfortable with the way she was skirting the law, even though they disagreed with the law itself. Some amount of sneaking around was probably necessary, they said, but they also wanted her to own up to her actions, even though they didn’t care for her being away from home more.

She failed to come to a decision that night, still torn up over what had happened. It wasn’t until she went to Grimmauld Place the next day that she got a second opinion from Sirius.

“Look, I’m not saying you were totally in the right, Hermione,” he said, “I’m definitely glad you went out of your way to help Harry with the Trace, but she’s right that you should have consulted us first. I would’ve gone along with it, even helped you. But that was a low blow for her to guilt you like that. Hestia didn’t _have_ to cover Emmeline’s shift. Kingsley could have done it. Hell, _I_ could have done it. She knew the risks. And you’re right about one thing: Emmeline’s not an Auror. She probably would have got killed in that fight, not just lost an arm, and Hestia knows it.”

“So what should I do?” she asked.

“My advice: if your parents are okay with it, go and do some lectures. Hestia might be crossing the line a little, but it’ll be better if you resolve the fight quickly, and you’ll be helping the kids anyway. Don’t let her walk all over you, though. Remember, she’s the teacher, not you, and you’re already spending all your time on school and Order stuff as it is. I can tell it’s wearing on you. You need to take care of yourself, too.”

“Thanks, Sirius,” she sighed. “I’ll think about that.”

* * *

And that was how Hermione Granger found herself facing Georgina Vector’s third-year Slytherin-Hufflepuff Defence class the following Wednesday. She and Professor Jones had worked out a schedule where she could lecture to all eight classes for the first four years in the space of a few weeks either by coming early to her regular lessons or staying overnight to the next day. That would mean less travelling and less time in the castle, which her parents appreciated.

(The Mathemagician’s Map had revealed that Malfoy was regularly sneaking off to the Room of Requirement. What he was doing there, they had no idea. Harry had tried to follow him, but Malfoy apparently had enough understanding of the Room to seal it to intruders, which was worrying in itself.)

“Good morning,” she told the class. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Hermione Granger. I’m an arithmancer by trade.” More or less. “But Professor Jones asked me to give a guest lecture today because I’ve been working on new defence techniques for younger students.”

“You’re not a professor!” one of the Slytherins objected.

“Professor Jones said I’m in charge today, so right now, I am,” she replied.

“You haven’t even graduated yet,” the boy shot back.

“And you’re muggle-born. What do _you_ know?” his friend said.

“Shut up!” Georgina said. “Hermione’s brilliant. She’s taught Defence before. And she’s fought actual Death Eaters, and they came off the worse.”

A hush fell over the classroom. Anyone who had been out there not just fighting, but _winning_ commanded respect. Hermione hoped she looked the part. At considerable effort, she’d made another change to her wardrobe over the weekend, buying a trench coat that superficially resembled Auror robes and adding her bulletproof lining to it. With that and her sword, ideally, she would look less like a student and more like a fighter, and thus like a more plausible Defence tutor.

“Thank you, Georgina,” she told the class. “Yes, I _have_ taught and fought before. If you’ve been paying any attention at all at Hogwarts, you’ve heard of…Dumbledore’s Army.” She’d never really cared for the name. “I know several of you had older siblings who were a part of it, and…”

She looked questioningly at Georgina, who got the message and nodded. “I was in it,” the younger girl said, “and I wasn’t the only Slytherin. Hermione and Harry Potter were teaching us Defence, and they were _good_ at it.”

That got the rest of the Slytherins’ attention. A couple of them still didn’t look happy, but they were willing to listen. “Okay, then,” Hermione said. “As Miss Vector said, I was teaching Defence to a number of students last year, and Professor Jones asked me to come and lecture about some of the defensive spells I invented myself. I’ve made some special efforts to develop a few spells that younger students can cast easily. Yes, Miss—” She consulted the seating chart. “—Corner?”

“Can third year spells really help against a Death Eater, Miss Granger?” the Ravenclaw girl said. “Couldn’t they just shield against all of them?”

“Excellent question,” Hermione replied. She remembered a line from Larry Niven: _What can get through a General Products hull? Gravity._ It was much the same principle here. “What can get through a magical shield?” she asked.

“Unforgiveable Curses,” one of the students said.

“Good. What else?”

“Powerful dark curses.”

“Good. What else?”

“Um…muggle guns?”

“No. At least not the kind of guns muggles typically use. Obviously, if they turn a cannon on you, a _Protego_ won’t save you. But what else can go through it?”

The class was silent for a minute, trying to think of something else simple that would fit the bill, until one of the Ravenclaw boys got the answer: “Light, ma’am.”

“Yes! Another.”

“Heat.”

“Yes! Another.”

“Sound.”

“Yes! And there are more, but those are the ones you need to know. Light and sound can go through most magical shields. Normally, this is what you want, but it is still a weakness that can be exploited. When concentrated, light and sound can be very effective against an enemy. Observe.” She turned her wand on a training dummy in the corner and cast, _“Extonio!”_ The class jumped and one or two of them screamed when they saw the spell explode with a blinding flash and a loud crack when it struck home.

“The Flashbang Hex,” she explained. “It won’t cause much injury even without a shield, but it’s extremely disorienting to the eyes and ears, and since light and sound can go through most shields, it remains effective even when it’s blocked, whereas most other spells aren’t. And it’s very easy to cast. It’s barely more complicated than an _Incendio._ With such low-power spells, it’s all about exploiting weaknesses like that, or else finding new applications for spells or more efficient techniques to cast them. Some are simple, like the Flashbang Hex, and some require a lot of technical knowledge to create. And unfortunately, the Burning Laser Charm is probably a little too advanced for this class, but I have a few other tricks up my sleeve.

“Here’s another trick for you: psychological warfare. _Lamenta!_ ” That was another simple one. She aimed her wand above their heads when she cast it, but the Directional Whinging Jinx spread out in a wide cone, and about half the class clapped their hands over their ears. She swept her arm from side to side so they could all get the effect before she cut it off. “That was a Whinging Jinx,” she explained. “Completely harmless, but very annoying. I just took a Drone Jinx, made it produce several dissonant notes in the highest octave of the piano where human ears are especially sensitive, and made it directional so I wouldn’t get caught in it. Instant nails on a blackboard. The wand motion is a little funny to get the dissonant notes right, but it should be well within your capabilities. These kinds of spells may not sound like much, but if they can disorient your enemy and buy you a little bit of time, they just might save your life.”

Most of the class didn’t know the first thing about spellcrafting, so most of that didn’t mean much to them, but it wasn’t hard for them to pick up the spells she showed them, which convinced the last holdouts pretty well. She was comforted more than she expected to know that the younger students wouldn’t be completely helpless. Maybe she _was_ doing some good here.

* * *

Hermione reflected that Mum and Dad were more nervous about her visiting Hogwarts because of her history there (and Cho’s death), but it was objectively more dangerous going to and from her lessons at the Burrow and Headquarters out in public. This went double on Halloween. She probably shouldn’t have been out at all that day, but she’d been putting off going to the bank, and she wanted to check in on George and Fred, so she went to Diagon Alley anyway.

This was proved a bad idea when a dozen black-robed figures Apparated into the middle of the Alley.

Naturally, Hermione’s first thought, being a sane adult witch, was to Apparate away very fast. No dice. A swipe of her wand told her there was an Anti-Apparition Ward in place.

Hermione’s second thought was to run away, as everyone else was doing, but her third thought was that that was stupid. She could just call Dobby to get her out of there. But just as she was about to call him, she heard something that made her blood run cold: a man’s voice calling out _“Commotio Cordis!”_ followed by a scream.

In what was probably her most foolish move since the Department of Mysteries, she drew both of her wands and ran _towards_ the danger. Only a couple of shops over, she saw them: a piggish-looking wizard in black robes looming over a young woman lying prone on the ground while a boy of about four cowered behind her.

“Wow, that really does wo—” the wizard started.

 _“Confringo!”_ Hermione’s curse took him by surprise, smashing through his cursory shield and knocking him down long enough for her to run up and check on the witch on the ground. It was obvious the Heart-Stopping Curse had struck true. She pointed her other wand at the woman’s chest and cast _“Defibrillosus!”_

The Death Eater quickly recovered and approached her again. She fought back with a two-wanded string of _“Protego! Dridristaub! Ossificans!”_ The Shotgun Curse made a lovely shield-breaker, she’d found, and the Ossifying Curse struck home and fused all the bones in the man’s wand arm together.

 _“Commotio Cordis!”_ another voice screamed.

 _“Zwinger!”_ Hermione cast on instinct and turned to see her own deadliest curse blink through the first layer of her double shield, but splash harmlessly off the second. Then, she saw Bellatrix Lestrange standing over her, grinning.

“Oh, so _that_ _’s_ how you block it,” she said.

Damn it, she’d just given the secret away, she thought, although if Bellatrix knew how to cast it, it wouldn’t be that hard to figure out anyway. But what could she do now?

_“Crucio!”_

Hermione dodged. She fired off as many curses as she could think of while keeping her shields up, but Bellatrix Lestrange wouldn’t be taken down as easily as the other one. Hermione nearly turned and ran, but she had to protect the woman and child.

“Bellatrix!” one of the other Death Eaters called. The witch turned, and he made an unidentifiable gesture. Hermione felt a shiver go up her spine as Bellatrix scowled and turned back to Hermione and said, “Until next time, mudblood,” and she Apparated away.

Hermione was confused for a moment, but soon, the pieces fell into place. A full-frontal assault in broad daylight in the middle of Diagon Alley would be a strategic disaster. It would kill a lot more purebloods than muggle-borns; it would reveal the Death Eaters as nothing more than mass-murdering psychopaths; and she’d lay odds that it would galvanise the wizarding public against them. But now, the Death Eaters weren’t mounting a full-frontal assault. They were already Apparating away before the Aurors even showed up, and the reason was obvious. A pitched battle hadn’t been their plan at all. It was a simple terror attack to mark the day.

When the dust cleared, the damage was fairly light. The Death Eaters had thrown a few curses around, done the equivalent of firebombing a handful of shops, and left. It wasn’t hard to guess that those shops were owned by muggle-borns.

Hermione checked the woman she’d run to save to make sure she was actually alive. She was. That was good. She kicked herself for being so reckless. She was extremely lucky that hadn’t gone a lot worse, especially against Bellatrix. With the woman apparently stable, she looked up the street to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes. George and Fred weren’t muggle-born, but they were “blood traitors”, and with that giant U-NO-POO sign in the window, she was worried. But when she spotted the store, she laughed. The entire shop front was bristling with rockets, threatening anyone who dared attack them with colourful explosions to the face. Well, at least they were probably alright.

“What happened?” The woman was stirring.

“A Death Eater tried to kill you.” _With_ my _curse,_ Hermione thought.

“Alfie?” she asked.

“Mummy!” the little boy cried, wrapping his arms around her neck.

“Oh, thank Merlin you’re alright. Thank you so much.”

“You’re welcome,” Hermione said. “You’ll want to go to St. Mungo’s to get your heart checked, but you should be fine.”

The woman nodded, then her eyes grew wide. “You’re _her_ ,” she gasped.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re Hermione Granger.”

“Yes. You’ve heard of me?”

“Miss Granger, every muggle-born in England has heard of you. Oh, where are my manners? My name’s Mary. Mary Cattermole. Thank you so much for saving Alfie and me. If there’s ever any way I can help you—”

Hermione gave only a perfunctory answer. Her focus was preoccupied by looking back where Bellatrix had stood, fruitlessly asking herself a single question: _How?_

* * *

“Professor Snape, how—?”

“Rookwood,” Snape said.

“What?” Hermione asked.

“Rookwood was an Unspeakable, Granger. He knows how to reverse engineer spells. You _were_ calling your attacks rather blatantly at the Department of Mysteries.”

“Oh my God, I never thought—”

“An appallingly common error, even from the most intelligent students,” Snape replied.

Hermione was silent. She’d come to Snape as soon as she could the day after the attack, looking for answers, but she was horrified to hear them. One more blunder that was her fault. She’d saved Mary Cattermole, yes, but there had been other victims yesterday, including one wizard who had fallen to her curse.

“How is your non-verbal spellcasting, Miss Granger?” Snape asked.

“It’s…it’s coming along well, Professor. I’ll need a lot of work to get the stronger curses down, though.”

“See that you do,” he replied. “Even that isn’t proof against an Unspeakable with a Pensieve, but it will make Rookwood’s job much harder. In the meantime, keep an eye out for any of the Death Eaters’ secret weapons that can be used against you. You have the mind to do reverse engineering of your own. Use it.”

“Er…yes, Professor,” she said meekly. “Um, Professor, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about—something I was already planning to ask…”

“Speak, then,” Snape replied, his impatience showing through.

“I had some questions about the Unforgivable Curses—specifically about blocking them.”

Snape narrowed his eyes at her. “There isn’t much to tell, Miss Granger,” he said. “The Unforgivable Curses cannot be blocked by any magical shield, with one obvious exception.”

 _Harry_ , she thought. “Is that actually proven, Professor?” she asked.

“If you mean Arithmantically, then no, but no one has succeeded in blocking them despite centuries of trying, and whole classes of shield spells have been ruled out as possibilities.”

Which still wasn’t proof, she noted. And if she could reverse engineer the Killing Curse enough to find another way to block it, it would be a big help to the horcrux problem. “What about a physical shield, though. Those block the Unforgivables, right?”

“Yes.”

“Does that still apply if you’re physically touching it? Is it possible to carry a shield strong enough to block the Killing Curse?”

Snape raised an eyebrow: “In principle, yes, but it would require an impractically thick and heavy shield, even if it were solid steel. And if you wanted to make it a breastplate, worn closer to the body, the problem would be even worse.”

“So a suit of armour wouldn’t work, then.”

“Certainly not. It was designed in the medieval period when they were commonly worn.”

“Alright then,” she smiled slightly, “but what would you say if I had a shield that was ten times stronger than steel and a quarter of the weight?”

“I’d say you were delusional,” he said without missing a beat.

Hermione smiled wider and reached into her handbag—the handbag she had recently enchanted with an Undetectable Extension Charm—and pulled out a disk of dark grey material nearly a foot wide and a quarter inch thick—and certainly too large to actually fit in the handbag.

“Miss Granger, where did you get that bag?” Snape asked suspiciously.

“Ask me no questions; I’ll tell you no lies, Professor.” Wow, it felt good not actually having to answer to him. No, it wasn’t strictly legal, but it wasn’t like anyone enforced that rule. “Now, what do you make of that?” She handed him the disk.

Snape examined her rudimentary shield methodically, testing its weight, rapping his knuckles against it, and trying to bend it before casting spells on it. When he did, he got a funny look on his face and threw it on the floor, casting more destructive spells. He looked genuinely surprised when Piercing, Gouging, and Blasting Curses that would have shattered a steel plate of that size only scratched it. He summoned it back and cast yet more spells that she vaguely recognised as scanning for magic before turning back to her.

“What is this miracle material, and where did you get it?” he said. “Diagnostic Charms suggest it’s very similar to graphite, and yet it’s somehow stronger than diamond with no magical reinforcement—in fact, stronger than any substance I’ve seen besides goblin silver.”

“The charm is correct, Professor. It’s a graphite-like material recently invented by muggles. I just used magic to refine the production process a bit.”

“Muggles?” Snape said in disbelief. “I keep more abreast of the muggle world than you might think, Miss Granger, and I’ve never heard of an impossibility like this.”

“I refined the production process a _lot_ ,” Hermione corrected. She used her Occlumency when she looked at him, just in case. No sense in letting that secret out. “It’s not in commercial use yet. Only muggle scientists have produced it so far, but the principles are simple.”

He scanned the nanotube plate a few more time. “I…find myself believing you,” he said, “if only because of the physical evidence. Once again, it seems you’ve exceeded all rational expectations, Miss Granger. I would have expected work like this perhaps from Dumbledore, more likely from Flamel himself, or from the goblins. I wouldn’t even know how to _measure_ the strength of goblin silver. Nothing is truly indestructible, but theirs is near enough…But even if this isn’t as strong, it’s so much _lighter_.” He paused and regarded her for a minute. “You must be very trusting to show this to _me_ ,” he said.

“Professor Dumbledore trusts you,” she said. “I don’t always agree with him, but I trust his judgement. You’re the only person I could reasonably ask about this, and even if you did show that to Voldemort, I’m confident he wouldn’t be able to replicate it.”

“Do not speak the Dark Lord’s name,” Snape hissed. “Why am I the only person you could talk to?”

She took several more disks from her handbag to show him. “I have different thicknesses of plates here,” she said. “I want to know if that material can stand up to the Unforgivable Curses, especially the Killing Curse.”

“Ah. And you want me to _test_ them for you?”

“I…You’re the only person I know who would be able to and _might_ be willing,” Hermione said carefully.

“I see. And what do you intend to do with it if I agree?”

“I was thinking a shield I could strap to my forearm that I could use when I don’t have room to dodge spells. I want it to be able to reliably block one Killing Curse if it’s not too unwieldy.”

Snape hefted the disk again and considered it carefully. “You should never rely on a shield to stop an Unforgiveable Curse,” he said. “That said, it may very well be possible with this material. Let me see your other plates.” She handed them to him, and he looked them over, too. “I will test these, _in private_ , and inform you of the results,” he said. “Consider it a favour in the interest of the war effort.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said in relief.

“You will tell no one. It would not be good if I were found to be involved in a project this potentially game-changing.”

“I understand, sir.”

* * *

Hermione was vaguely aware that Quidditch was still going on this year. She at least made the time to go to the Gryffindor-Slytherin match. Ginny was on the team this year as a new Chaser along with a third-year girl named Demelza Robins. Peakes and Coote were the new Beaters from last year, and Ron had narrowly beat out Cormac McLaggen for Keeper, much to everyone’s relief. She remembered McLaggen from her time at Hogwarts. He was an arrogant arse who thought he was God’s gift to witches.

She supposed she should have been paying more attention given that Quidditch was such an important part of Harry’s life plus the whole being banned thing from last year, but she just couldn’t get into it, especially after the attack two days ago. As much as she tried to focus on the game, she found her mind wandering to any of a half dozen different subjects and wishing she’d brought something to take notes. She should really load up her handbag with more useful things like that.

Ron did seem to be on his game today, as far as she could tell. Hermione didn’t see him let any shots through, although she wasn’t paying enough attention to keep track of all of them. Lee was gone, she remembered sadly. Though he would have graduated anyway, they would never again hear his unique brand of commentary. Some Hufflepuff boy she didn’t really remember was at the microphone instead, and from what she could tell, he didn’t much like Gryffindor.

She was snapped out of her thoughts about advanced topology when one of the Slytherin players collided, with Harry nearly knocking him off his broom. She screamed in fear, but Harry quickly righted himself, and not a minute later, he caught the Snitch. It was only when the game was over that she noticed Malfoy wasn’t playing. Was he in the Room of Requirement again? What was he doing in there? They still had no idea despite Harry trying to tail him every chance he got. Malfoy was just too slippery.

Hermione was shocked when, just after the game ended, Ginny collided with the commentator’s box. She claimed it was an accident, but Hermione knew she was too good a flier for that to be true. She didn’t think that Hufflepuff boy would be commentating again.

She wandered down to the pitch to congratulate her friends, only to find someone had already beat her to it in Ron’s case. As soon as they were out of sight of the teachers, Parvati Patil literally jumped on Ron and was snogging him for all she was worth. When had _that_ happened? Those two had had a rocky relationship for two years. Had they finally made it official? Hogwarts changed fast when she wasn’t looking.

Maybe someday, when she wasn’t fighting a war, she’d have a normal life again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lamenta: Latin for “cry” or “lament”.
> 
> Ossificans: from the medical term, Latin for “turn to bone”.


	43. Chapter 43

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Voldemort’s terror wards are no match for JK Rowling.

“And that is how you gild the lily,” Dumbledore finished, displaying a golden flower for all to see. The process was incredibly elegant, a textbook example of how to imbue one substance with the properties of another. It needed precise timing, but it was surprisingly easy. It came in two steps; the first made the gold flow like quicksilver over the flower for just a few seconds, and the second infused the gold into its molecular structure, petrifying it, yet leaving its petals as thin and delicate as ever.

“For homework, three feet describing how the process would differ with silver, copper, aluminium, and platinum,” he said. Those were common examples: four other metals, two common, two noble, two classical, and two modern—a neat survey of the range of elements. “Dismissed,” he finished. “Hermione, could you stay for a moment, please?”

It was the last week of classes of the term when Hermione got the proverbial call. Professor Dumbledore kept her back after Alchemy class and asked her to come up to his office, and he sent Anthony Goldstein to fetch Harry to join them.

“I have informed Professor McGonagall that I will not be at dinner tonight,” he explained as they walked. “We have more important matters to attend to.”

Hermione waited in silence until Harry arrived. She had no idea what was going on, but she had a feeling she wouldn’t get a straight answer until he joined them. He appeared in the Headmaster’s office soon enough, having apparently nearly run to get there. “Professor, what’s going on?” he asked breathlessly.

“Harry, Hermione,” he said. “Last spring, I promised you that I would allow you to come with me when it came time to search for a horcrux.”

Harry and Hermione both immediately stood at attention. “You found one?” Harry said. “You found a horcrux?”

“I have had my suspicions about this particular location for quite some time,” he said. “I now believe that you two are now ready to accompany me.”

“Come with you?” Harry said eagerly.

“Only if you wish it, of course. I did promise you could come, but it would be very wrong of me not to warn you that this will be exceedingly dangerous—”

“I’m coming,” Harry insisted.

“And so am I,” Hermione agreed. She wasn’t going to let her best friend go on his own. And she was definitely going to do her part to stop Voldemort. True, her parents might kill her for running headlong into danger, but she’d worry about that later.

“Very well,” Dumbledore said with an air of finality. “I will take you with me on one condition. And Hermione, this applies to you, too. I know you do not answer to me through the Order, but it is vital that we have a clear chain of command on this mission, and I do, in fact, have much more experience than you do. Do you understand?”

Hermione gulped. She wasn’t sure if she’d ever seen Dumbledore look this serious. “Yes, sir,” she said, and Harry echoed her. She wasn’t about to argue on this point.

“My condition is this: that both of you will obey any command I give you, immediately and without question.”

“Of course,” Harry said at once.

Hermione didn’t answer instantly, however. Her mind leapt from conclusion to conclusion almost faster than she could follow. She almost turned him down flat for fear of some kind of bait and switch, but her common sense prevailed first. Dumbledore wouldn’t ask them to do anything morally egregious and would assuredly place both of their lives above his own. With Harry being the Chosen One and herself trying to solve the horcrux problem, that made Dumbledore himself the most expendable of the three of them.

That wasn’t a comforting thought.

“You must understand, both of you,” he said; whether he took Hermione’s silence for assent, she didn’t know. “If I tell you to hide, you will hide?”

“Yes, sir.” This time, both Harry and Hermione spoke at once.

“And if I tell you to flee, you will flee?”

“Yes, sir,” they repeated.

“And if I tell you to leave me and save yourselves?”

“I will, sir,” Hermione said.

Harry whipped his head around to stare at her. “Hermione?” he said in surprise.

“Harry?” Dumbledore pressed.

He turned back to the Headmaster and saw the unyielding look in his eyes. “Yes, sir, I will,” he assented.

“Very good. Then Harry, there are two things you must do. First, go and fetch your invisibility cloak and return here. Second, look there.” He pointed to a glass case standing against the wall. Inside was an ornate sword with a hilt studded with enormous rubies. “I wish for you to take up the Sword of Godric Gryffindor, as you did against the basilisk in the Chamber of Secrets.”

Harry’s eyes grew to the size of saucers. “Me, sir?” he said.

“You were the last person to wield it in battle, Harry,” Dumbledore said. “It will submit to you and you only until another Gryffindor calls it at time of need. But you must be very careful with it. When you killed the basilisk, the goblin silver blade imbibed the serpent’s venom. The smallest scratch will be fatal.”

“You need it to kill the horcrux,” Hermione figured it out. “We’re going to destroy the horcrux and not study it, Professor?”

“We are, Hermione,” he said firmly. “A horcrux is too dangerous to leave intact. Our theoretical studies will have to be sufficient to solving our remaining problem.”

“I understand, sir,” she said.

“Good. Now, I will ask you to go by a separate route, Hermione, so that we are not seen together. We do not want to rouse suspicion tonight. If there is anything you believe you need to fetch from home, go as swiftly as you are able, and then meet us behind the Hog’s Head in fifteen minutes.”

With a nod, Hermione shakily got up and left the office to walk down to the front gates. There _was_ one thing at home she wanted, but it would also mean having to explain what she was doing to her parents, and she really didn’t have the time. She almost decided to pass on it before she remembered the obvious solution.

“Dobby.”

 _Pop!_ “Yes, Miss Hermione?” Dobby said.

“Dobby, I need you to bring me the buckler I was working on from my bedroom at home—the one that has the straps attached. Don’t let Mum and Dad know about it.”

Dobby nodded and vanished, bringing the buckler back with him a minute later. She might have carried it in her enchanted handbag, but it turned out that widening the opening to accommodate it required an entirely _different_ Expansion Charm that she hadn’t got the hang of yet. Her buckler was a simple carbon nanotube disk a foot in diameter and eight millimetres thick, which strapped onto her left arm, courtesy of Professor Snape’s experiments. It weighed about the same as her sword, which was good. It didn’t look very nice, and it didn’t cover as much as she wanted, but it was already unwieldy for a wand user, so she couldn’t make it any bigger. She’d thought about alternative possibilities, like making it folding and spring-loaded, for example, but she hadn’t had time to try them out.

“Thank you, Dobby,” she said. “Now I want you to tell Mum and Dad I’ll be home late, but not to worry because I’ll be with Professor Dumbledore.”

Of course, Dobby was shrewd enough to figure out something was up. “Miss Hermione, what is you doing tonight?” he asked.

“That’s a secret for now, Dobby. Please just tell Mum and Dad I’ll be home late, but not to worry because I’ll be with Dumbledore.” She repeated her words exactly so that there would be no loopholes.

“Yes, Miss Hermione, I will.” Dobby’s ears were drooping a little, but he obeyed nonetheless. She didn’t like using him like this, but again, she didn’t have the time, and this was definitely important.

With the buckler strapped over the sleeve of her basilisk-skin coat and her sword girded at her side, Hermione’s kit was as complete as it would get for the moment. In addition to the buckler, she’d finally got her slash-proof leggings worked out. The insight had come from her mum, who explained that stockings made with even a little bit of Lycra in the weave would have more elasticity and stay up better than a pure fibre. So she looked up the chemical formula for Lycra, only to find that it was a fiendishly complicated copolymer of polyester and polyurethane. She could make it, sure, but it would take a lot of effort, and it wouldn’t be as good as the factory-made stuff. She considered making nylon instead or even just plain polyisoprene, which was basically rubber, but Mum came through again and suggested a simpler solution: if she could manipulate fibres so well, why not just buy some Lycra clothes and unravel them?

She really needed to remember to look out for simple solutions like that.

It took a little bit more doing than that, but it wasn’t difficult. Hermione bought some Lycra clothes and separated out the polymers into microfibres the same size as the carbon nanotube ones she’d been using. Then, after closely examining some ordinary stockings as a guide, she wove them together into a similar ultra-fine fabric as before, only this one was elastic. It worked perfectly: the weave was so fine that it still didn’t pass light when stretched, but it had enough give to serve as comfortable clothing. Well, on the third try anyway. Her first pair of leggings wouldn’t stay up, and her second pair were so tight they were cutting off her circulation. Her third try, however, turned out so well that she went back and replaced her vest and bike shorts with the new material.

Once fully armed and armoured outside the gates, Hermione Apparated to Hogsmeade and made a show of walking through town to the Hog’s Head. She was aware that she looked more like a fantasy adventurer than ever. Only if she were wearing an actual medieval gambeson, she thought, would she look more the part. But unlike the sword, which she would probably never have cause to use, the buckler was a very practical piece of defensive equipment.

Harry and Dumbledore met her behind the Hog’s Head as promised. Dumbledore regarded her new gear with interest, but he didn’t comment. Harry looked distinctly impressed: “Whoa, didn’t know you were going full knight here.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she said, only to realise she probably hadn’t. “Er, well, I’m just going with whatever works, and Professor Snape says this will.” Harry was looking more knightly than usual himself. He had Gryffindor’s Sword strapped around his waist and was wearing gloves, just in case.

“We should leave presently as soon as we are sure of not being seen,” Dumbledore interrupted quietly.

“Professor, where are we going?” Hermione asked. “Do you know which horcrux it is?”

“I’m afraid I am not certain which it is, although I have my suspicious,” Dumbledore replied. “However, as to where, you will remember from the Pensieve memories I showed you, the home of Voldemort’s magical family. I have found it.”

Hermione remembered: more of a hovel than a home, inhabited by two wizards and a witch, dirt poor and hopelessly inbred. She nodded to him.

“Harry, as you do not yet know how to Apparate, I will take you by Side-Along. Hermione, you have not done Guided Apparition before, I believe, but it is not as difficult as Side-Along. Merely take my arm and, instead of picturing your destination, focus on following where I am going. Get ready, please.”

Each of them took one of Dumbledore’s arms. Hermione quickly adapted her usual Apparition technique on the fly, which wasn’t difficult. Focusing on Dumbledore’s destination rather than her own, she turned on the spot, felt the still-unpleasant feeling of being squeezed through a tube—no, a _straw_ , she thought—and in a moment, she was standing at the edge of a somewhat warmer, though still-damp forest.

_It_ _’s unpleasantly like being drunk._

_What_ _’s so unpleasant about being drunk?_

_You ask a glass of water._

Hermione wondered idly if Douglas Adams was a wizard.

It was hard to pin down the exact sensation, but this forest felt distinctly un-magical compared with the Forbidden Forest. The trees were smaller here, and the forest floor was much more snarled with thorny undergrowth.

“What do you think?” Dumbledore asked as calmly as if he were asking their opinion on a potential campsite.

“It’s not exactly national park material, Professor,” Hermione said.

“No, it is not,” he replied. “Abandoned to nature many years, and not in a good way.”

“The shack is in here?” Harry asked.

“Indeed. A ways back from the road—in sight of it only when the path to it was well-kept. The Gaunts lived completely isolated. They believed themselves to be better than all other wizards, and all other wizards consider themselves better than them for much more practical reasons. This was not conducive to living in civilised society.”

Hermione was surprised to hear Dumbledore all but coming out and saying the Gaunts were “uncivilised”, but the description was apt, and it only seemed to grow more apt as they pushed deeper into the undergrowth. The forest seemed to grow darker, and the vague feeling of magic came back, but twisted in a way that Hermione couldn’t properly name. It wasn’t the wild, but neutral magic of the Forbidden Forest. It felt more like she imagined the Shadow of Mirkwood might have felt—dark and foreboding.

“You feel it, too, Hermione, Harry?” Dumbledore said.

Hermione nodded firmly, and Harry said, “I feel _something_ , sir. I don’t like it.”

“Nor do I, Harry,” he responded. “The horcrux has had many years to work its malevolence on a forest with no magical defences against it. You must stay close, and be alert, both of you. The horcrux itself will be very dangerous, like the diary was, and it will doubtless be surrounded by many deadly magical protections.”

Dumbledore lit his wand to see by, and they did the same. He then motioned for them to stand just behind him and took small steps forward, his arms outstretched, almost as if he were trying to grasp at the air itself. Hermione and Harry saw nothing, but they could guess he was feeling for something in particular.

The feeling of unease grew as they moved deeper into the forest. Hermione felt that fluttering feeling in her chest that she always got when she was anxious. She began to feel a powerful urge to go anywhere else—to go home to her parents or to go to her meeting with Septima early.

Wait, what meeting?

“Professor, is all this from the horcrux?” she asked.

“No, it is not, Hermione. Voldemort has placed wards on this place to make intruders feel less at ease than they otherwise would be—”

“Oh my gosh! Professor, we have to go back!” Harry said suddenly. “I have a date with Ginny!”

“Harry, is this really the time—?” Hermione started.

“No, Harry,” Dumbledore spoke over her, “unless I am very much mistaken, you do not. We are experiencing the effects of a standard Repelling Ward. Anyone who crosses it suddenly remembers an urgent appointment and feels the urge to leave.”

“But—”

“Use your Occlumency, Harry, Hermione,” he ordered. “Focus on the mission, and tell yourselves that any appointments can be postponed.”

They did, and the pressure eased. Hermione had it easier because she kept such a tight schedule. Her danger was more in forgetting what day of the week it was than getting her appointments mixed up, but Harry calmed down, too.

“Brace yourselves,” Dumbledore said, with the barest hint of strain in his voice. “There will no doubt be stronger measures.”

“Are all the horcruxes protected like this, sir?” Harry said nervously.

“On the contrary, I am certain that each one will be protected differently. The diary was in the safekeeping of a Death Eater. I have some evidence of another that is protected by more physical deterrents. These protections, however—” He stopped and shivered almost imperceptibly. “—appear to be emotional in nature.”

Hermione felt the chill in the air, the growing darkness, and understood what he meant. “This place feels _haunted_ , Professor,” she said. “I mean like muggles mean when they say ‘haunted’.”

“Another ward,” he confirmed. “But these, I suspect, are the ones made to repel errant muggles. Soon, I believe we will—aha.” He took a large step forward and began trembling. Harry and Hermione began to step forward to help him, but he cut them off: “Stay where you are for now.” He moved forward on his own, straining as if he were pushing against a great force. It took him what felt like many minutes to move just a short way forward, constantly feeling out for whatever protections were placed. He was trembling the whole way, which worried Hermione, and he several times recoiled as if he’d been struck. But then, he pushed all the way through whatever it was and relaxed.

“Alright, it is safe,” he called back to them. “It takes a strong act of will to pass through the wards, but the way is clear when you come through.”

Hermione swallowed her nervousness and stepped forward, but she only felt more and more anxious as she did so. It was a strange feeling in that, despite the immediate danger, she couldn’t really pinpoint what she was anxious _about_. She’d had panic attacks before, but they’d always been over something that was _worth_ panicking about. Here, it was what what she _didn_ _’t_ see that weighed on her.

Harry grabbed her hand and pulled her along. She was strong-willed, but Harry was a man on a mission when he was truly motivated. Even so, her heart was racing in her chest. Anxiety gave way to abject terror, and she felt a crawling feeling on her skin. It was all she could do to keep from bolting. Dumbledore must have had incredible willpower to push his way forward ahead of them on his own.

The crawling feeling intensified with each step, covering every inch of her, over and under her clothes, until it felt like she was moving through a living mass of insects—invisible, inaudible, but as thick as treacle when she tried to press through them, and her every instinct told her to run. It was the only the sight of Dumbledore on the other side calling them forward that kept her going.

The sensation of crawling bugs started escalated to stinging—mild at first but still covering every inch of her skin and getting stronger. But pain she could deal with. She gripped Harry’s hand tighter and pressed forward once again.

Suddenly, the stinging changed. No longer was it a mass of insects. Instead, it became like a mesh of razor-sharp wires—like the traps she had laid in the Department of Mysteries—threatening to flay her alive if she took another step, and it was then that she cracked.

“Something’s wrong!” she cried, trying to pull pack. “It’s going to kill us!”

“You must continue forward,” Dumbledore ordered sternly. “You will not be harmed. It is merely the ward making you feel that way.”

Hermione couldn’t move. She was drenched with sweat and sobbing from pain and fear. It was nearly as bad as if a dementor were looming over her. She wanted to run far, far away and never come back.

“Come forward,” Dumbledore ordered again. She looked up and saw his face. He was unhurt. He must be right about the wards. Even if she didn’t trust him on everything, but she definitely trusted him with the mission. With a supreme effort, she and Harry pushed their way through to him and suddenly found themselves whole the other side, the weight of terror vanished. They nearly collapsed from the shock.

Dumbledore smiled kindly at them as they caught their breath. After a moment, he said, “I am reminded of The Fountain of Fair Fortune. Do you know it?”

Harry shook his head, but Hermione nodded. “We looked it up in the library ages ago, sir,” she said. “But what about it?”

“Three wards,” he said.

 _Was that only three?_ she thought. “I…I don’t understand: fear, toil, and…?”

“Pain. The three wards were fear, toil, and pain. In the story, it was emotional pain, but Voldemort would not comprehend that, so he opted for a more physical effect. Only the strongest could come this far. Now, I think, the protections will be more cunning. Please follow me, close behind, as before.”

Dumbledore began to move down the path again, still moving slowly and flicking his wand in small motions as he felt his way forward. Harry and Hermione followed, relieved to be through the terror wards. Now there was only the slight, almost imperceptible tingle of a magical environment around them, but there were sure to be other dangers. They couldn’t even see the shack yet, even though it should have been visible by now. There was nothing but brambles and thorn bushes in front of them. Had Voldemort made the whole thing invisible?

“Aha!” Dumbledore said, and he waved his wand in a complex pattern and tapped it against something. Suddenly, a wrought iron fence with a large gate appeared, extending right and left in a wide circle around the cluster of bushes in front of them. It was only them that Hermione realised the shack must be hidden _within_ the bushes like Sleeping Beauty’s castle.

It was completely dark in the forest by now, and they brightened their wands to see better. The fence was like nothing she had ever seen. It was wrought iron, but she could only just tell that was what it _used_ to be. Its bars were bent and broken, sticking out everywhere like a forest of spears, and they were rusted—rusted far more than its age would suggest until every bent and broken bar was rusted down to a jagged point that would tear flesh at the slightest touch.

Dumbledore did not touch the fence, but instead examined it closely. “Surely not,” he said. “So crude? And yet, very clever in a way Voldemort would surely appreciate.”

“What is it, Professor?” Harry asked.

“A crude ritual, Harry. The gate requires a sacrifice for us to pass.”

“A sacrifice?” he said.

“Yes. A sacrifice of blood, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

“Blood?” Hermione said softly. “But Professor, ritual magic requires the price be paid _permanently_.”

“It does, Hermione, which is why I said it was very clever in Voldemort’s own disturbed way. Anyone who made it through the wards and was not looking very carefully would find themselves impaled upon the invisible fence. They would lose a great deal of blood and would be severely weakened or even bleeding to death and beyond the help of a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Fortunately, now that we know it is here, only a few drops of blood are needed to open it, and that is a small price to pay for an eighth-part of Voldemort’s soul, don’t you think? And only one of us will need to pay it, as well.” He withdrew a silver potions knife from his robes.

“Professor! I’ll do it, I’m—” Harry started to say, but Dumbledore waved him back.

“You are very kind, Harry, but your blood is more valuable than mine,” he said.

“Sir, wait,” Hermione jumped in. She quickly drew her black stiletto from her ankle holster and handed it to him. “At least use mine. It’s sharper—cleaner—less wasted.”

The Headmaster raised his eyebrows, then nodded in understand. “Why, thank you, Hermione. And a fine piece of crafting this is.” He cut his finger and dripped three drops of blood on each half of the rusted gate, wasting nothing. The gap between the halves of the gate glowed, and with a creak and a _crunch_ , it began to swing inward. He returned the stiletto and healed his hand while Hermione cleaned the blade.

They walked through the gate, being careful not to touch the rusted spikes. It slowly creaked shut behind them. They walked forward and came to a stop an arm’s length outside the shell of brambles. Up close, Hermione could finally see the shack inside it, overgrown with vines and thorns—again, far more than the time since it was last inhabited would suggest.

“What do you think?” Dumbledore asked again.

Harry considered the thicket before him for a minute and pointed his wand. _“Accio Horcrux.”_

Nothing came out, but the thorny vines moved and rattled menacingly, and all three of them took a large step backwards.

“A good idea, Harry, but I think we shall have to be a bit cleverer,” the Headmaster replied.

“Can we cut our way through? Or burn them?” Harry suggested.

“With the Sword of Gryffindor and Hermione’s Snickersnack, no doubt we could, but it would be dangerous. No, I think there is a simpler way. Look there—through the thorns. Do you see it?”

Harry and Hermione both squinted into the thorns, waving their lighted wands back and forth to see past the shadows. The outline of a door and windows was visible.

“The door?” Harry understood where he was pointing.

“Yes, and on the door?”

There it was, almost invisible, hidden in plain sight as another vine unless you know exactly where to look. “A snake skin!”

“Correct. The solution, you now see, is very simple: command the door to open.”

Harry caught on at once and stared intently at the snake skin. _“Open. Open. Open,”_ he muttered to himself under his breath, and then, his voice wasn’t English anymore, and he let out a low hiss. With a loud rustling and scraping, the thorn-bushes peeled aside, exposing the door, which swung inward with a loud creak.

“The one good thing to come of Voldemort cursing you with a horcrux, Harry,” Dumbledore said. He took a step forward, but immediately stopped short and held up his hand for Harry and Hermione to halt. “Ah, and now we see the final trick,” he said. “This door, I believe, will allow only one person to enter at a time. When one person enters, one person must leave before another does. Otherwise, the thorn bushes will attack. I’m afraid I must go in alone.”

“There must be something we can do to help, Professor,” Harry said.

“Hmm…I think I have an idea, Harry,” he said. “There is a legend—which is laughably wrong, but may still provide inspiration in this case—that in ancient times, the High Priest of Israel would enter the Holy of Holies in the Temple with a rope tied around his waist, so that if God smote him down, the other priests could drag him out without entering themselves.” He conjured a long rope and tied it just above his belt. “I certainly do not expect to be smitten by anything in that shack, but there are yet many things that could go wrong. If something should happen to me in there, you may pull me out unless I order otherwise.”

They took hold of the rope. Hermione was glad to be of _some_ use. Voldemort’s protections seemed to be designed to foil any team effort like theirs, but at least there was some point in them coming. However it was nearly pitch-black in the shack, and they couldn’t see much of the interior from outside, even by Dumbledore’s wandlight. They certainly couldn’t see enough to help direct him or even get a good view of him.

Hermione had an idea. “Harry make your wand brighter if you can,” she said. She extinguished her own _Lumos_ and began chanting a spell under her breath, imagining a complex, vaguely cylindrical patch of air just past the door frame changing its index of refraction. It took a few tries to get the geometry right, but she soon had produced an intangible, cylindrical fisheye lens that allowed them to see the entire interior of the room. It shimmered and rippled as the air moved, and it required a constant application of magic to maintain, but it worked well enough.

Dumbledore looked back at the doorway as he noticed the change in lighting, his form narrowed as if in a funhouse mirror by the effect. They must have similarly appeared wider than the doorway to him, but he caught on at once. “Very clever, Hermione,” he said. “Did you invent that spell just now?”

“No, Professor,” she said. “A new application for an old one. I knew the theory approximately, but this is the first I’ve tried it this way.”

“Well, do continue. This lighting is a definite improvement,” he said.

He was, they realised after the fact, gravitating towards a particular spot in the room, which would not otherwise have been in sight of the door. He had told them months ago that it was possible to detect a horcrux by the traces of dark magic around it, but he again moved slowly, passing all the way around the spot and checking for traps. He made occasional comments about what he was doing, but he mostly worked in silence. After a few minutes, he reached his conclusion: “Well, there do not appear to be any traps on the shack itself.”

He bent down and removed one of the floorboards, lifting it up with his bare hands. He set it aside and cast a few more detection spells before lifting a small box out from underneath it. He looked back up at the pair through the distorted view of the doorway. “The horcrux is in the box,” he said. “It appears Voldemort felt that it did not require any additional protections beyond what is outside the shack.”

“Which one is it, sir?” Harry asked.

“We shall see, Harry.” Dumbledore opened the box. “It is the—” His voice caught with a soft gasp.

“What is it, Professor?” Hermione said.

“It is the ring,” he said absently. “I wasn’t sure whether to believe it from the memory, but it is,” he said, seemingly to himself. It was difficult to see, but he appeared to be kneeling completely still.

“Is something wrong, sir?” she said.

“No, it is fine,” he said, though he seemed oddly unsure of himself. “If I could just try it once first,” he said, so softly they could barely hear it. Then, to their horror, he picked up the ring and started to put it on.

“Professor!”

“Stop!”

“What are you doing?!”

 _“Ooohhhhhh!”_ It was too late. Dumbledore moaned loudly in pain and clutched at his wrist.

“The rope! Now!” Harry yelled.

Dropping her charm and clenching her wand in her teeth, Hermione helped Harry drag Dumbledore out of the shack. The old man was still on his knees, his long robes tearing on the floorboards. Unfortunately, just as he reached the threshold, the bushes came to life and attacked.

 _Thrash!_ “AHHH!” Harry yelled as the nearest bush whacked him across the face with a thorny vine. _Thrash!_ Hermione was just a fraction farther away and barely blocked it with her buckler before grabbing her wand. They tried to pull Dumbledore free, but the vines grabbed him by the wrists and ankles and tried to pull him back into the shack.

 _“Immobulus!”_ Hermione cried, but the branches slowed for a moment and started up again. _“Impedimenta! Diffindo! Relashio!”_ She was having some effect, but there were too many to stop them all.

 _“Incendio! Reducto! Confringo!”_ Harry yelled, but none of his destructive spells did any better. They’d been made highly magic-resistant. “Hermione, do something!”

“I’m trying! Think! Think! Pushing them around still works, but it’s not fast enough. Maybe rearrangement? Voldemort wouldn’t expect it, and it’s just pushing atoms around…”

Harry drew the Sword of Gryffindor and was starting to make some headway cutting through the branches, but he still wasn’t fast enough. Dumbledore was being dragged back inside. “Hermione!” Harry yelled.

“Give me a minute! Come on, come on…Got it! _Facite Aqua Lignorum!_ ”

She threw all her effort behind the spell, and she could feel it go to work in the vines that gripped her ankles. The first sign was that they began sweating water, and then, the nearest coiling branches stiffened and, to Harry’s shock, shattered like glass in a wave travelling back to their roots as she rearranged more and more matter. Soon, only short stems of the nearest brambles were impotently waving around while the ground was covered with crumbling wood chips.

They pulled Dumbledore away as fast as they could and helped him to his feet but he staggered, and he thrust out a hand that was fast turning blackened and mummified—a ring that must have been the horcrux sitting on the middle finger of his wand hand.

“Merlin’s pants! It’s cursed!” Hermione said.

“Don’t—don’t touch!” Dumbledore said, his voice strained with pain.

“Professor, you have to take it off!” Harry yelled.

“Can’t—won’t come off,” he moaned.

“It’s bonded to his hand,” Hermione said. Holding him by the arm, she could see the withered flesh pinching under it.

“We have to do something!” Harry said. “Take the hand off maybe?”

“No! Can’t lose wand hand.”

“It’s getting worse!” Hermione cried. The blackened flesh had already spread to the adjacent fingers.

“Professor Snape—he’s the only one who can help.”

“What about destroying the horcrux?” she said.

“Have to wait.” He started to stagger back towards the gate, but he stumbled again. His wrists and ankles were bleeding, and Hermione had a bad feeling it the curse was making it worse.

“But it’s killing you! There has to be some way—” She paled as an idea came to her. She pulled out her stiletto again and held it up for him to see. “Lord of the Rings?” she asked, certain he would understand the awful reference.

Dumbledore turned and looked her in the eye, and for what might well have been the first time, she saw real fear in his eyes. But he considered just a moment, directing a mere glance at his hand before nodding silently.

“Harry, hold him,” she ordered.

“What are you—?”

“Just do it!” She had to do this before she lost her nerve. Harry grabbed Dumbledore’s left arm and held him fast while Hermione held his right arm steady, down at an angle so that the ring would fall away from her. It was sitting on the middle joint, in front of a large, cross-shaped ring. “I can’t believe I’m doing this,” she whispered to herself. She wedged the atom-sharp point of her stiletto between the bones and sliced Dumbledore’s finger off, ring and all, in one swift motion. She then dropped her stiletto like a hot iron when it started to smoke and turn to ash in her hand.

“Harry, destroy it!” she ordered.

Harry snapped to attention at once, hefting the Sword of Gryffindor over his head and swinging it down on the ring with a mighty _CRACK!_ There was a bright flash that knocked him back, and all was still.

Hermione grabbed her wand again and prepared to heal Dumbledore’s hand.

It wasn’t bleeding.

Dumbledore was breathing hard, but slowly coming to his senses. “We must take the ring with us,” he said. “To ensure nothing went wrong. It should be safe now, but do not touch it with your hands.

Harry didn’t have anything useful on hand, but Hermione had a spare pair of gloves in her handbag that she used to pick up and wrap up the ring. They turned around and hurried back to the gate, helping Dumbledore along. They had to move fast. The curse on his hand had slowed, but Hermione had a bad feeling it hadn’t stopped. When they reached the gate, closed again and still filled with jagged, rusty points, Hermione was prepared to cut her finger on Snickersnack to pay the sacrifice, but Harry was ahead of her. He already had blood running down his face from the thorns, so he wiped up some of it with his fingers and flicked it at the gate. It opened outward, and they hobbled through it.

 _“Episkey.”_ Hermione came around and healed the cuts on Harry’s face. “Just in case,” she said.

“Thanks,” he replied breathlessly.

They pushed back up the path, praying the wards only worked in one direction.

“What did you do to the thorns, anyway?” Harry asked.

“Rearranged the cellulose chains in the wood into lignin,” she said.

“Seriously? I though you couldn’t do that to living material.”

“I can’t. The heartwood is already dead. And those bushes were old. They had plenty of it— _AUGH!_ ” Hermione nearly vomited when the terror wards hit her all at once. It turned out they _did_ go both ways, but it wasn’t as much of a problem this time. The wards were designed to drive people out, so they were at least going the right direction, plus she was more worried about Dumbledore right now. They got out quickly.

“Professor, are you still okay to Apparate?” Hermione asked. “I can probably Side-Along with Harry.”

Dumbledore held up his wand in a blackened, four-fingered hand. He didn’t even try to switch it to his left hand, even though it was shaking a little. “It is probably best if you do, Hermione—if you feel comfortable with it. I can make it back on my own, however.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “Alright, then,” she said. “Be careful, Professor. Harry…just hold still, will you?” She’d studied the theory of Side-Along Apparition, but she hadn’t tried it before. Not wanting to take any more chances than necessary, she grabbed Harry in a bear hug and focused very hard on getting both of them back to the gates of Hogwarts in one piece.

They made it back fine, although she gave in to the urge she always had when she Apparate to pat herself down and make sure she hadn’t lost anything. Dumbledore appeared beside them a few moments later, immediately leaning against the gate for support. It couldn’t be easy to use his wand like that, with both the curse and missing a finger marring his hand.

“Thank Merlin,” Harry said. “Come on, sir, you need to get to the Infirmary.”

“No, Harry, Severus is the only one who can help this,” he stopped him. “Please loan Hermione your invisibility cloak. Frankly, she is on better terms with him than you are. Hermione, take the Cloak and find Severus. Use your Map. Tell him to meet us at the Clock Tower. It isn’t ideal, but Harry and I will proceed there under Disillusionment. Speak to no one else, not even the elves. You know they are not beholden only to me. Remember, this excursion never happened.”

“Yes, Professor,” she said. She took the Cloak, silenced her shoes for good measure, and started running up to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Facite Aqua Lignorum: stylised Latin for “make water from wood”, as cross-linking cellulose chains results in water being left over.


	44. Chapter 44

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: When wizards need help, they call for Harry Potter. When Harry Potter needs help, he calls for JK Rowling.

As Hermione ran, she remembered Dumbledore’s orders: that she obey him immediately and without question. But she also noted that Dumbledore had spoken to her very differently than he would have to Harry. Harry was much quicker to follow his orders when he impressed their importance upon him—which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—but he knew that Hermione would want to know his reasoning, and he explained to her as they went. But that also meant that, knowing the reasoning behind his orders, Hermione was even quicker to take the initiative and bend them a little. The Hogwarts elves were not beholden only to Dumbledore. Umbridge had proved that, so he told her not to speak to them. But she knew one elf whose loyalty was undividedy. As soon as she got to the castle, she ducked into an alcove and called for Dobby.

“Miss Hermione? Where are you?” Dobby said when he popped in front of her.

 _“Shh!_ I’m invisible, Dobby,” she said. “I need you to take a message to Professor Snape right now. It’s an emergency.”

“It is? But I doesn’t know where he is, Miss,” Dobby said fearfully. “I’s not tied into the wards anymore.”

“Oh, right.” Fortunately, she had already pulled out the Mathemagician’s Map, and she quickly found him in the dungeons. “There he is.” She pushed her arms out from under the Cloak and pointed to his dot on the Map. “Go to him. Tell him Professor Dumbledore’s been hurt and to meet him at the Clock Tower immediately.”

“Professor Dumbledore?” he gasped. “I’ll go right away, Miss.” Dobby vanished, and Hermione continued in that direction so she could meet Snape on the way and tell him what happened. Following the Map, it was easy to intercept him, but getting his attention was a little touchy. Taking a guess at the best method, she stood in an alcove, stuck an arm out from under the cloak, and waved at him as he passed by.

“Psst. Professor Snape,” she hissed.

Snape whirled and drew his wand on her. She had her own up and was halfway through casting a Shield Charm before he lowered it. “Miss Granger,” he growled. “I take it you sent the message?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Follow me. Quickly. What happened?” He turned away and kept moving as fast as he could without breaking stride.

“Professor Dumbledore took Harry and me on a…a special mission.”

She wondered if she should tell him about the horcrux, but Snape solved the problem for her: “I’m aware of Dumbledore’s mission. What happened?”

“It was curse, Professor. Dumbledore put it on. I don’t know why. It turned his hand black and withered, and I had to cut it off him.”

Snape stopped just for a second and turned to face her in surprise before dismissing it and continuing on. “Where is he now?”

“He’ll be coming up the path Disillusioned with Harry. That was the quickest way.”

“Right. Miss Granger, go to Madam Pomfrey and acquire a Compartmenting Potion, a Blood-Cleansing Potion, a bottle of undiluted Essence of Dittany, a Wiggenweld Potion, and a Strengthening Solution. Do you have all that?”

“Compartmenting, Blood-Cleansing, Dittany, Wiggenweld, and Strengthening,” she recited.

“Good. Go quickly. I will meet you outside.”

Hermione ran. Invisible and partially silenced, she made no sound besides her breathing, not that she ran across many people anyway. Supper was over, so most of the students had gone back to their common rooms. The Infirmary was also empty of patients, which made things that much easier. Hermione whipped the Cloak off and rushed into Madam Pomfrey’s office.

“Madam Pomfrey!”

The Mediwitch shot to her feet: “Miss Granger?”

“There’s an emergency! I need a Compartmenting Potion, a Blood—”

“A what?” Pomfrey gasped. “Miss Granger, a Compartmenting Potion is highly poisonous!”

“Huh? That’s what Professor Snape asked for.”

“What for? What happened?”

“Professor Dumbledore’s been hurt, ma’am. It was a dark curse. I—I’m not sure I should be telling you—”

“Say no more, Miss Granger,” she said, springing into action. She went to a cupboard and started looking through potion bottles. “If he asked for a Compartmenting Potion, he must have also asked for a Blood-Cleansing Potion.”

“Well—yes. How—of course, it prevents Compartment Syndrome. Makes sense. He also wanted a—”

“Strengthening Solution?”

“Yes, that, and a Wiggenweld and undiluted Essence of Dittany.”

“Undiluted? What kind of curse was this?”

“I don’t know, ma’am, but Snape sounded like he knew what he was talking about.”

“Dear Merlin! We’ll have to hurry.”

“I’ll take them ma’am,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore didn’t want anyone to know we’d gone out.”

Madam Pomfrey stopped and looked Hermione over very quickly, her eyes darting from her face to her sword and shield, and to Harry’s cloak in a second, conflict playing across her face. “Snape is already with him?” she asked urgently.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright.” Pomfrey quickly placed the five potion bottles in a carrier that resembled a milk bottle rack and handed it over. “Hurry, and do whatever he says, but I want to see Dumbledore as soon as possible.”

“Got it.” Hermione turned and ran back down the stairs to the Clock Tower entrance. It was nearby, but she’d still lost more time than she would have liked going for the potions. Still, she hoped things would be more or less under control once she got the potions to Professor Snape.

She was completely unprepared to see the grounds ablaze and flashes of spellfire flying between two figures who appeared to be doing their level best to kill each other. She broke into a sprint, trying to get close enough to see what was happening. A thin red beam stabbed through the night air, and Hermione recognised her Burning Laser Curse, while in return, a fireball was shot back at the caster. Harry was visible—and under attack by a figure in black robes. A Death Eater? Here? How? But no, they didn’t have the mask and hood. She set the thought aside and tried to run to flank the attacker as she got close enough to hear what was going on.

_“Percutio! Flagello! Hemorrhagia!”_

_“Fulmina! Garrotez!”_

_“_ AH— _Finite!_ _”_

_“Dridristaub!”_

_“Sectumsempra!”_

With the last two spells, the remaining two figures fell to the ground.

“HARRY!”

All thoughts of fighting forgotten, she ran to her best friend’s side. She gasped as she saw not just two, but four people lying on the ground in the firelight, three of them unmoving. There was blood _everywhere._

Harry was the lone figure who was still moving, but he was on his back, groaning and trembling with shock. Blood was soaking through his robes alarmingly fast. She knelt down and ripped his shirt open to see three huge gashes cutting across his chest and bleeding heavily.

“Oh, God!” she gasped, covering her mouth. _“Episkey!”_ she cast. No effect. _“Emendo!”_ Nothing. _“Reparifors!”_ Still nothing. “Oh, what am I thinking? _Tergeo!_ ” She cleaned his wounds and grabbed the bottle of Dittany from the carrier, drizzling the liquid across them. To her horror, they began to close, but quickly stopped.

“Dammit, Harry, you can’t die on me! Come on!” His breathing was becoming laboured. There was only one other thing she knew to try, and she hadn’t tested it yet, but she had no other choice. _“Facio Sutura!”_ Loosely based on the _Incarcerous_ Hex, her Suturing Charm conjured a surgical needle and thread, which made stitches along the wounds faster than any human hand was capable of. The bleeding slowed and nearly stopped. “Oh, thank God,” she said. _“Ferula!”_ Conjured bandages wrapped themselves around Harry’s chest. Together, those should keep him alive long enough to get him to help.

“Professor Dumbledore!” she said. He’d been lying behind Harry, and she staggered to her feet to reach him next. But then, she got a good look at him, and she let out a long, loud whimper at a pitch she hadn’t thought herself capable of and fell to her knees again, dropping the potions rack. Dumbledore also had those horrible gashes, but on him, one of them went across his face, clean through his left eye, and another went through the side of his neck. His remaining eye was still open. He’d been dead before she even got there.

She was dazed, oblivious at first, but she was sure it hadn’t even been a minute before the quiet was rent by a howl of despair so loud it nearly deafened her. The fight on the grounds had attracted attention. Hagrid arriving first from his hut and completely broke down. Hermione came to her senses as the adrenaline kicked in again and surveyed the scene. Madam Pomfrey was running across the grounds to them with a trickle of staff and students following at a slower pace. The Mediwitch screamed when she saw Dumbledore’s body.

Hermione ran over to her and grabbed her by the shoulders: “Madam Pomfrey! Madam Pomfrey, look at me!” The composed Mediwitch who had served through the last war returned at once. “ _Harry_ _’s_ been cursed now. I did what I could, but it wasn’t enough. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Pomfrey nodded shakily and said, “Right. Check on the others.”

Hermione rushed to Snape’s prone form and turned him over. No blood that she could see, and she soon found a pulse. It looked like he was just stunned. _“R-Rennervate,”_ she cast, and he blinked back to awareness. Then, he sat bolt upright so fast their heads nearly knocked together.

“Dumbledore?” he said urgently.

She shook her head, choking back a sob: “Dead.”

“NO!”

He shoved her aside, knocking her to the ground. She didn’t bother trying to reason with him. Turning back, she reached the final body at about the same time Professor McGonagall did, and McGonagall flipped them over to reveal Harry’s and presumably Dumbledore’s attacker. There, lying with sixteen buckshot-sized holes through his chest, his eyes open and lifeless, was Draco Malfoy.

* * *

_“What happened?”_

Snape’s question was low and threatening, promising all manner of trouble if he didn’t get answers _right bloody now_.

“I only saw the end of the fight,” Hermione said. “Harry and Malfoy were duelling—using lethal spells. Dumbledore was already…d-dead. Harry killed Malfoy just as I reached him.”

“What spell was Potter hit with? What caused the wounds?”

“I’m not sure—”

_“Think, girl!”_

“There were a bunch of spells!” she said. “From what I could see, it had to be either… _Flagello_ or… _Sectumsempra_.”

Snape paled. _“Sectumsempra,”_ he hissed. “Damn that boy, I should have torn that page out.”

“What, you—?” Hermione started to say, but Snape was already gone, hurrying off in the direction of the Infirmary. It wasn’t hard to put the pieces together, though. Snape had given Malfoy a bunch of new spells at the beginning of the school year. _Sectumsempra_ must have been one of them—maybe even a spell Snape had invented. Certainly, Hermione could see how to make one like it, even if she didn’t know the exact details. And if Snape had given it to him, he assuredly knew the countercurse, too.

But why give it to Malfoy? Maybe he just didn’t think Malfoy would be so vicious. She hoped that was all it was. Snape could have been in on the whole thing, but that seemed unlikely to her. Despite what had happened, she actually felt _more_ certain of the man’s loyalty now than she had in a long time. For before he had hauled her back to the castle, she had caught a glimpse—only a glimpse before he composed himself again—of something she never thought she would see in her life: Severus Snape crying.

* * *

“It’s my fault,” Harry said.

“No it’s not,” Hermione told him without bothering to ask what part of it was he thought was his fault.

“I should have seen Malfoy coming sooner. I didn’t even know he was there until he hexed Snape in the back. I was too busy worrying about Snape and Dumbledore.”

“Well, how do you think _I_ feel, Harry?” she said. “I should have seen Malfoy following Snape on the Map. I was too worried about getting what I needed from Madam Pomfrey. And even if I had, I would’ve been more worried about you. I mean, who would’ve thought he could beat _Dumbledore_ in a fight _?_ ”

“It was his hand,” Harry said flatly.

“Huh?”

“Between the curse and the missing finger, he couldn’t cast as well as usual.”

The two of them sat in silence. Snape had repaired the damage from Malfoy’s curse, and Madam Pomfrey poured Blood-Replenishing Potions down his throat, which got him stable enough that he didn’t have to go to St. Mungo’s. She said Hermione had probably saved his life. Now, Professors McGonagall and Jones were discussing what to do with him. Ordinarily, the safest thing would have been to send him back to Grimmauld Place, but Dumbledore had been the Secret Keeper, so now, everyone in the Order was a potential security breach. They eventually decided to call in Aurors Shacklebolt and Tonks to guard him in the Infirmary until they came up with a more permanent solution.

“What happened out there, Harry?” she asked him.

Harry lay back down on the bed and closed his eyes. “Malfoy hexed Snape in the back,” he said. “I didn’t see him coming, and I guess Dumbledore didn’t either…He was getting to be pretty out of it by then. Malfoy looked…I’m not sure what it was. Kind of crazy, I think. Dumbledore must’ve known he was there to kill him. He said knew Malfoy was behind Cho’s death, too. I didn’t know he knew that for sure. He told Malfoy he wasn’t a killer, that Cho was an accident, but Malfoy said he had to do it. Voldemort would kill him and his mother if he didn’t.”

“Oh, God,” Hermione whispered.

“He really did look crazy then. He looked a little scared at first, but now, he was like he’d attack any second. Dumbledore was still talking, though. I don’t know if it was ‘cause he knew he was too weak to fight or he actually wanted to talk Malfoy down.”

“Probably both, knowing him.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry conceded. “Dumbledore said there was another way—the Order could protect him and his mother—but he wasn’t listening. I was still following Dumbledore’s lead. I should’ve just cursed Malfoy on the spot.”

“Dumbledore ordered us to follow his lead, Harry,” Hermione told him. “Besides, would it have gone any better if you cast first?”

“I dunno. Maybe.”

“And maybe he would’ve killed you too. We can’t know what might have happened. You’re lucky to be alive as it is.”

Harry nodded, but she could tell he didn’t really believe it.

“What happened next?” she said.

“Well, _I_ asked Malfoy why he hexed Snape after he led him out there, but it turned out Snape didn’t know—or Malfoy said he didn’t. I…I was a little confused about what he was saying. Something about Bellatrix not trusting Snape. I think Malfoy had his friends following Snape around or something, but I’m not sure how he followed him without anyone noticing. That’s when he attacked. He didn’t even try to fight me, just blocked everything I threw at him. I tried to get in front of Dumbledore, but he wouldn’t let me, so I couldn’t block everything Malfoy cast at him, and Dumbledore couldn’t cast well enough…He caught him with freaking _Expelliarmus!_ How does that happen? And then that curse…” He trailed off.

“I think that’s about where I saw what was going on,” Hermione said.

“I saw Dumbledore go down…I didn’t know he was dead yet. I just knew I had to do whatever it took to stop Malfoy.”

“Yes, I saw,” she replied sympathetically.

“I broke his shield and nailed him with a Garroting Curse. Then I used your Shotgun Curse when he stopped to cancel it…You know, I couldn’t stand that git from the day I came to Hogwarts, but I never thought it would go this far.”

Neither had she—not really. Harry had _killed_ someone tonight. That was something even Hermione hadn’t done and didn’t want to, although she’d tried once or twice in self-defence. She knew it would probably happen before the war was over, though. She even knew from what happened with Bellatrix at the Ministry that she’d be able to do what she needed to when the time came, which was a disturbing thought in itself, but she couldn’t help but think it had to be worse for Harry: one sixteen-year-old boy killing another sixteen-year-old boy who had himself been all but forced into becoming a killer.

Slowly, a low, mournful song wafted over the grounds—a song filled with grief beyond the ken of mortal men, and yet, a sound that eased the pain of those who heard it, if only a little. Fawkes. Dumbledore’s phoenix sang a long time, seeming to pour the whole of the old man’s life into the music. Things that Hermione knew only hints about—his sister who had died in childhood, some sort of friendship with Gellert Grindelwald, the fighting he had done in both World Wars—came through in melodies that she understood more clearly on some level without knowing the words. All fell silent upon hearing it, not wanting to break the music’s spell. When it finally ended, the castle was quieter than Hermione had ever remembered it. Even the distant sound of the river below seemed to have vanished.

“Harry,” she whispered. “I need to go home. Mum and Dad will be worried sick by now, and that’s if they _don_ _’t_ know what’s happened yet. Are you going to be okay?”

“I’m f—” he stopped. “I think so,” he said. “Eventually.”

“If you need me for anything—”

“I’ll let you know. Thanks, Hermione.”

“Good night, Harry,” she said.

Hermione walked down slowly to the castle doors. There were a lot of students out in the corridors now, waiting for information, or just standing in solidarity. She didn’t say anything as she passed them. Many were crying. Even the Slytherins she saw had the decency to stand by respectfully. Pansy Parkinson actually was crying, although she was sure it wasn’t over Dumbledore, while Crabbe and Goyle stood behind her looking stunned. The Greengrass sisters and Tracey Davis looked pretty shaken up as well, and Georgina Vector was crying, too. The Greengrass sisters looked like they wanted to say something to her, but they didn’t. Ginny, Ron, Luna, and Neville had already said their pieces. She didn’t speak all the way down to the front gates, where she took a deep breath to steady herself and Apparated to the front entryway at home.

“It’s about time, Hermione,” Mum said when she heard the crack. “We’ve been worried about—My God, what happened to you?”

Hermione looked down at herself and belatedly realised she was still covered in blood. She guessed she was probably pale, red-eyed, and dishevelled by now, too. “Mum, Dad…Dumbledore’s dead,” she told them. She dropped her sword, buckler, and coat on the floor.

“Dead?” Mum breathed. “That mission you were doing—?”

Hermione shook her head, not wanting to explain. “No, Draco Malfoy killed him afterwards…And then Harry killed Malfoy.”

Mum and Dad gasped. That was probably at least as hard for them to swallow as it was for Hermione. “Hermione, are _you_ okay?” asked Mum.

“I’m not hurt, if that’s what you mean…” She looked down at herself again. “I need to get cleaned up.”

* * *

“I feel just _awful_ ,” she said.

Hermione was showered, changed, and nursing a mug of hot chocolate when she finally tried to tell her parents the story, and it was still coming out all out of order as her mind jumped from point to point, trying to process too many things in parallel.

“It wasn’t your fault, though,” Dad told her. “You weren’t even there.”

“But if I’d watched the Map more closely—If Dumbledore had full use of his hand—”

“You said that from was some kind of curse,” he observed.

“Yes, but _I_ was the one who cut off his finger.”

“You cut off his finger?!” Mum gasped.

“He let me!” she defended herself. “It was a cursed ring, and it was bonded to his hand. I suggested it, and he let me.”

“Oh. Well, if he was in charge, and he told you to do it, you have nothing to feel guilty about,” Mum said, “especially if you thought it was the best way to help him at the time.”

“I know, but if I hadn’t, maybe he could’ve defended himself.”

“And maybe he couldn’t. Hermione, you can’t dwell on what might have happened,” Dad said sagely. It figured he’d throw her words to Harry back at her. “You just have to learn from your mistakes and move forward the best you can. The important thing is, what are you going to do now?”

“I don’t know, Dad,” she replied. “I really don’t know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I am evil.
> 
> Flagello: Latin for “I scourge”.
> 
> Garrotez: French for “Strangle”.
> 
> Facio Sutura: Latin for “I make sutures”.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Requiem aeternam dona eis, JK Rowlingus.

Hermione didn’t get out of bed for breakfast the next morning, nor did she bother getting up to go to Grimmauld Place for her lessons. She doubted that lessons of any kind were going on in magical Britain today anyway, and even if they were, from how skittish Professor Slughorn was about the Death Eaters, she’d bet good money that he’d already done a runner from Grimmauld Place now that the Fidelius wasn’t secure anymore.

She was still lying in bed, half-awake, when she heard someone ring the doorbell, and a minute later: “Hermione come down, please. Septima is here.”

Her eyes snapped open, and she sprang out of bed. Grabbing her wand, she ran down the stairs and skidded to a halt in front of Septima on the hardwood floor, her wand pointed in her face. “Describe the Riemann tensor and its purpose,” she demanded.

“What?” Probably-Septima said, taken aback. “Um…the Riemann tensor is a rank- _n_ tensor that fully describes the local curvature of an _n_ -dimensional manifold. And…and you told me that in four dimensions, it can be contracted down to the Ricci tensor in Einstein’s equation using…was it Christopher symbols?”

“Christoffel symbols,” Hermione corrected, and she lowered her wand. “Mum, I know you couldn’t really stop a dark wizard from coming in if they wanted to, but just for my own peace of mind, please ask me to check when someone you know is a witch or wizard comes to the door.”

Mum stared at her like she’d grown a second head. Normally, her mother was the one telling her to be extra cautious. This was an odd reversal. Hermione ignored it and turned back to Septima. “How are you doing, Septima?”

“As well as I can be under the circumstances. I’m worried about Hogwarts, and my family, too…and honestly, the Ministry, but…Look, Hermione, I’m sorry to disturb you, but Professor McGonagall and Professor Snape want you to come back to Hogwarts immediately.”

“What for?” Hermione said warily.

“I don’t know, but they said it’s important.”

She wondered what that meant. Did they want to question her about what happened? Did the Aurors? Did they actually know what was going on? The autumn term ended after tomorrow, so she could agree it was urgent. “Alright, um…I’ll get ready as soon as I can and Apparate by myself, if that’s alright,” she said, still wary of the possibility of the Imperius Curse.

“That’s fine, Hermione,” Septima said. “I’ll see you soon.”

Hermione suited up to the extent she could. Her “battle robes”, if she could call them that, were still stained with blood. She wore her older, pure carbon vest and shorts, and her basilisk-skin coat was easy to clean, being basilisk-skin, but she felt vulnerable without her full kit. And she knew now that Hogwarts wasn’t safe. Hopefully, the staff would watch closely to prevent another Malfoy, but she was already thinking about a hood or helmet to go with her robes. Surely, that was paranoid; wizards didn’t go into battle in full plate armour, after all; but it was the mindset she was in now.

She apparated to Hogwarts and make the slow trek up from the gates. Inside the castle, she saw students milling around, looking solemn, and she watched them on high alert.

“Classes have been cancelled,” Septima said when she met her again. “They’re rushing Dumbledore’s funeral in case something happens. It’s tomorrow, down by the Lake. And Professor McGonagall’s been made Interim Headmistress pending a formal appointment in the spring term.”

Hermione nodded. Barring serious problems, she’d come for the funeral. “Where did they want me to go?” she asked.

“The Head’s office.”

She trudged up the many flights of steps to the Head’s office. For all the good memories she had here, the castle seems darker and more foreboding than it ever had before—emptier, in a way. When she reached the Head’s office, nothing had been disturbed yet. It still looked like Dumbledore’s office, only with no Dumbledore. Professors McGonagall and Snape were there instead, along with two Aurors in uniform whom she didn’t recognise. McGonagall wasn’t crying presently, but her eyes were red and swollen. Snape looked as dour as ever, and the Aurors appeared shell-shocked.

“What’s going on here, Professors?” she asked.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said shakily, “the Aurors here need to take a statement from you regarding Dumbledore’s…murder. They have already spoken with Mr. Potter. Given the circumstances, there probably won’t be any action in court, but they need to make a full investigation.”

“Nothing too formal,” one of the Aurors said to her. “Just tell us what happened in your own words.”

“O-okay,” she replied. “Well…Dumbledore, Harry, and I left the castle last night…” She trailed off and looked at Snape. How much should she tell them?

“We know the basics, Miss Granger,” the Auror said. “It was a secret mission for the war effort. You don’t need to give any details. Just start from Headmaster Dumbledore’s injury.”

Hermione began again, describing the curse that befell Dumbledore from the ring, cutting off his finger, and the events that transpired after they returned to Hogwarts. She knew the drill well enough. Seeing as this was a criminal investigation, she restricted herself to things that she personally witnessed, but that alone was draining, especially going over it a third time in the space of a few hours. But when she was done, the Aurors seemed satisfied with her story. They thanked her for her help and took their leave.

“Thank you for coming, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Talking through…what happened with you and Mr. Potter has clarified a few things. I still can’t believe a student would turn on the Headmaster like that, even a Death Eater’s son. And what Potter did…”

“Harry did what he had to,” she said.

“I know, and that’s what’s so terrible about it. You children shouldn’t have to fight this war.”

“We knew what we were getting in for, Professor. We knew even before we were kidnapped at the Ministry.”

“I suppose you did,” McGonagall said with a sigh. “Well, the other reason we called you here is that Professor Dumbledore left you a message.”

“He did?” Hermione said in surprise.

“He left messages for several of us in the event of his death,” Snape answered, “which was wiser than I expected of him. Last night was not the first time that the man’s optimism got the better of him.”

“Alright, then, let me see the letter.”

“The message was not a letter,” Snape said. He motioned, and Hermione saw him pointing to Dumbledore’s Pensieve. “The Headmaster left a series of Pensieve memories to various people he felt needed personal instruction. He left the Pensieve itself to his brother, interestingly enough, but that is another matter. He asked the memories to be played for their intended recipients in private. The memories for you are already in the Pensieve. You know how to activate it?”

“Just to play them back? Yes, sir,” Hermione said. “I take it you’ve already seen yours?”

A thoughtful look briefly crossed Snape’s face.

* * *

_Hours Earlier_

_“My dear Severus, I regret that I could not aid you longer than I have, although given the circumstances of our working relationship, you may be just as glad to be rid of me. It is impossible to serve two masters, and in some ways, neither I nor Voldemort was your true master. No, you have always been serving three. But that is neither here nor there._

_“I have much to tell you, Severus, but I will begin with the most important. I had previously entrusted you to give Harry the knowledge of your_ true _position in the Order—to win his trust entirely, as you did mine—and to tell him the truth of the horcrux inside him. However, circumstances have changed. Miss Granger is without a doubt the most brilliant witch I have ever met, and thanks to her, this role is no longer necessary. Tell Harry what you will._

_“I do strongly urge you, however, to entrust your secrets with Minerva, merely so that there is one person who knows you are truly on our side, and who knows not to kill you if it comes to it. We can too easily forget that cats, however domestic, are natural killers, and I do not wish to see you on the wrong end of her wand._

_“But now, I’m afraid I do have a new task for you and new secrets for you to remember. These secrets, however, are ones that I sincerely hope you never have to tell. It would be better if you would let them die with you. I am telling you only so that someone knows, in case unforeseen circumstances make it necessary to reveal them._

_“I know that you did not grow up reading the same stories most of the wizarding world did, Severus, so I will give you a brief overview. There once lived three brothers of unparallelled skill, whose power together was the equal of Merlin himself…”_

* * *

“Yes, I have, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “However, that does not concern you. Your own message will tell you all you need to know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I also wanted to warn you,” he added. “Narcissa Malfoy is naturally distraught over her son’s death. I truly do not know what she will do, but it is entirely possible she will come after you.”

“Oh…er, yes, sir.”

Snape and McGonagall left the office, leaving Hermione alone. It was then that she noticed that she was standing in _complete_ silence. All of Dumbledore’s marvellous silver instruments had gone still like the proverbial Grandfather’s Clock. It was eerie in there. The office seemed wrong somehow without the white noise she had experienced every other time she had visited. She stepped forward and looked down into the Pensieve. The silvery memories were there, swirling about. She tapped the correct sequence of runes with her wand, and a ghostly image of Albus Dumbledore rose from the surface. But the image was strangely flat and a little bit distorted, and it took her a moment to place it.

Dumbledore was looking in a mirror.

It was obvious when she realised that Dumbledore’s nose was bent the wrong way—a clever little way to leave a video message without a camera.

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Hermione,” the image spoke. Apparently, this message was intended for the both of them. “If you’re watching this, then our time together has been cut short before our task was completed. Most likely, I have gone on to the Next Great Adventure, or else incapacity or distance has separated us in a way that I can no longer help you. If this has happened, I apologise for being unable to aid you further. But I want you to know that I still have confidence in the two of you and your friends to finish the task before you.

“I am making this message on the day I intended to take you to retrieve the horcrux from Voldemort’s ancestral home. While I am reasonably confident we will be safe there, there is always the chance for something to go wrong. I want to tell you now what I know of the other horcruxes so that you may search for them yourselves. First, as you know, there were five, leaving aside the one that is bound to Harry, though one has, I hope, been destroyed when we raided the Gaunt shack. Voldemort’s snake he keeps with him for the most part. The others are the Gaunt ring, Slytherin’s locket, and Hufflepuff’s cup, as you saw in the memories. I believe the last one is most likely to be Ravenclaw’s diadem, but this is merely a guess, and you should be vigilant for any other notable artifacts, particularly of Ravenclaw’s or Gryffindor’s, that Voldemort may have used in its stead.

“As for where the horcruxes are located, I am afraid I have only one solid lead besides the shack. There is a sea cave near Southend-on-Sea. I have left notes on its exact location and appearance for you in my papers. The young Tom Riddle went there on holiday as a boy, and he performed magic on two of his fellow orphans there that left them emotionally traumatised for life. I have been to the location and confirmed that Voldemort has placed enchantments on it consistent with a horcrux hiding place, but I did not venture further. I had intended to take you there early in the next term, but if you are seeing this, that is no longer possible. When you go there, I ask that to take either Alastor Moody or William Weasley to help you. They are both experts in dark magic and will be able to get through the protective enchantments nearly as well as I. If, for some reason, neither of them are available, you will have to make do.

“I have left notes on possible hiding places for the other two horcruxes, but I fear it will be far more difficult for you to find them. Some of the locations I have investigated already, such as the former site of Wool’s Orphanage, while others, such as Riddle Manor, I have not yet been able to. They may also be in the care of other Death Eaters, as the diary was. I wish I had more for you to work with, but you now know as much as I do.

“Finally, I must give you a warning about the Gaunt Ring, whenever and wherever you find it: the stone in the ring is a powerful and ancient artifact in its own right—very dangerous beyond whatever protections Voldemort has placed on it. Do _not_ touch it. Truthfully, I do not know myself how to destroy it. Best just to let it be buried someplace you yourselves cannot find it again, just as you suggested to me once, Hermione.

“I know the task before you is difficult—possibly the most difficult you will ever have to face. But despite the challenge, I want you to know once more that I still believe in you…Good luck.”

The image of Dumbledore dissolved. That was singularly unhelpful. It told her nothing she didn’t already know except that she _still_ didn’t know how to get all the horcruxes. Maybe she should be looking for another option. Even the warning about the ring was moot, as they’d already found it. But she didn’t have time to dwell on it, as the image was immediately replaced by another nearly-identical one.

“Hello, Hermione,” he said with a sad smile. “You should have already seen my message to you and Harry together. I have just a little more to say to you personally.

“First, and most importantly, you have already seen my books about horcruxes. I want you to take them. I want you to take them _now_. Use your enchanted handbag, and keep them hidden. I have also placed my notes on the search for Voldemort’s horcruxes with them. Take those as well. If the Ministry finds them, they will confiscate them, and they will be far more likely to fall into Voldemort’s hands.

“Your goal has not changed, I’m sure. You wish to remove the horcrux from Harry so that his life may be spared. I am giving you all the resources I have in pursuit of that goal. I am placing a great deal of trust in you, Hermione. I know we have not seen eye to eye on many issues over the past year and a half. Yet you have shown me my own mistakes, and I have come to trust your council more than most. I have faith that you will use this knowledge responsibly.

“I am not exaggerating, Hermione, when I say that you are the most brilliant witch I have ever met, and I am including both Seraphina Picquery and my own sister in that statement. You have single-handedly advanced the field of arithmancy by decades already. If anyone can do this, it is you. But I also ask you not to dwell on your failures—and failures will happen. You may even regard my own death as a failure. You should not. I have made my own choices in my life and my own mistakes. You will make mistakes as well, but it will not do to dwell on them. All you can do is learn from them and move forward. And remember that sometimes, you can make all the right moves and still lose, and while I pray that does not happen, if it does, all you can do is move forward just the same. Merely try your best, and you will have done well.

“Finally, I say to you what I have said to several others in these messages: Harry Potter is the best hope we have. Trust him. But for you, I will amend that message. You have a unique burden placed upon you, and I am sorry that you now have to bear it without the support I could have given, but I have every confidence you will rise to it. I say to you: You are the best hope _Harry_ has…Trust yourself.

“And do take care of yourself as well, Hermione. Goodbye.”

* * *

On impulse, Hermione showed up for Dumbledore’s funeral in the closest thing she had to full military dress—the highest honour she felt she could pay the man. Of course, her basilisk-skin coat was also her go-to battle robe, so it wasn’t that distinctive, but a trip to Twilfitt and Tattings made for a quick fix. After looking up what the army’s dress uniform looked like, she had them add a wide, white belt around the waist, with her sword strapped over her coat rather than under it, gold epaulets on the shoulders, and silver caps on the buttons. She purchased an emerald-green, broad-brimmed witch’s hat with a purple band around the brim, and she also had them polish the leather. It wasn’t perfect, but it would be good enough for the day. Perhaps she would write back to that cursebreaker in India to see if she could commission a new coat in a dress style.

There were hundreds of people braving the cold to attend the funeral on the snowy Hogwarts lawn, including Madame Maxime from Beauxbatons, whom Hermione greeted warmly, a large contingent from the Ministry, Hagrid and Grawp in the back, and merpeople and centaurs waiting at a distance. She noticed an old man in the front row who looked strikingly like Dumbledore himself, who she assumed was his brother.

A few people gave Hermione funny looks when they saw her, but Harry took notice of her new outfit at once, and, after raising an eyebrow, he gave her a tight smile and snapped a salute. “Good afternoon, Captain Granger,” he said.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Okay, I admit that’s the effect I was going for,” she said, “but why am I a Captain, now?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed like the thing to say.” His face fell, and he leaned closer to her and said, “So, did you see the message from Dumbledore, too?”

“Yes. And a little extra…The plan hasn’t changed,” she added when he gave her a questioning look. “We keep on hunting for the horcruxes the same as before, and I keep looking for a solution to your problem.”

“Except without his help,” Harry pointed out.

“Yes, without his help. But I have all his books and notes on the subject. We have enough to keep working.”

“What about the Ministry though,” Harry said. “I heard the teachers saying how they might not be able to stand up to Voldemort now that Dumbledore’s…gone. And is Hogwarts safe anymore either?”

“I don’t know, Harry. You’ll have to talk that over with Sirius.” It was worrying, for sure—threat to her home and her parents in particular. Dumbledore was the one who had set up their security. She’d have to look into what her options were now.

There were no lengthy speeches at the funeral—only a semi-lengthy eulogy by the officiant. Dumbledore probably would have wanted it that way, she thought. Besides, if everyone close enough to him to be worth the trouble got up to eulogise him, this would go on all week.

Hermione was rather interested in the ceremony itself. She had never seen a wizard pastor before (at least, she assumed he was the village pastor from Hogsmeade), but the tufty-haired little man sounded like a pretty generic C of E priest—nothing earth-shaking there.

When the officiant finished, there was no procession, just as she was pretty sure there had been no viewing hours. _That_ surprised her—she didn’t know if it was some aspect of wizard culture, just the security concerns, or something else—but when the priest was done talking, Dumbledore’s body was magically encased in a white marble tomb to lie on the Hogwarts grounds for all time.

“Miss Granger!” Professor Snape’s voice called to her as the crowd was breaking up.

She turned to face him, standing as straight as she could. “Yes, Professor?”

“I have something I want to give to you,” he said.

“You do?”

He handed her a sheaf of parchment. She quickly thumbed through it and saw a copious amount of spellcrafting notes. “These are your spells?” she said. “But why—?” Or why not? She thought. Wasn’t that what she was doing with the D.A. last year and the Defence classes this year?

“Miss Granger,” he said, “at the beginning of the term, I gave Draco Malfoy my own sixth-year Potions book as a small token of loyalty to the Dark Lord. This book contained my extensive Potions notes including many improvements on the lowest common denominator textbook versions of the potions, as well as most of my spellcrafting notes in the margins. I was a dab hand at arithmancy myself in my day. I now see I was a fool to give the boy my spells and equally a fool to give _only_ him my spells. I’m giving my notes to you now so that you can make good use of them…and perhaps to make some small repayment for my mistakes. That dossier includes all of the spells I have created except _Sectumsempra._ ”

“Not a problem, Professor,” Hermione replied. “I already reverse-engineered _that_ one.”

Snape stared at her for a minute, no doubt deciding whether or not to put the fear of God in her regarding his spell. Finally, he said, “Once again, Miss Granger, I find myself glad that you’re on our side.”

“Thank you, Professor,” she said with a smile.

* * *

The funeral was held on Friday, and by Monday, two days before Christmas, Hermione was back in action. She had made herself a new stiletto, with platinum runes this time instead of gold, and she converted her basilisk-skin coat back to its combat-ready appearance. She had made another set of slash-proof underclothes since she wore them every time she went out, now, and wanted to have a spare while they were being cleaned. She still wished she could do more with them. Slash-proof did not equal stab-proof, nor bullet-proof. Such a thin fabric had far too much give to make either of those work. So unless she could add a non-Newtonian, impact-hardening layer somehow, or else weave in some runes or something, she wasn’t as protected as she would like.

Now there was a thought. Could she weave runes into the fabric for extra protection and still have them work? That would be easier _without_ the Lycra, she knew. A fabric with less give wouldn’t distort the runes in a topological sense when it folded because the geometry of the manifold would remain flat, but the stretchy Lycra-infused fabric _would_ change their shapes. She might have to leave it for the outer robe and the lining of her coat only. Still, if it worked, it could do all kinds of things: impact-hardening, fire protection, maybe even temperature regulation…

In any case, both she and the Order had planning to do. A meeting had been called at Hogwarts, since the castle had been formally closed for the holiday and all the students sent home. The first order of business was what to use as a new Headquarters.

“Can’t we just recast the Fidelius Charm on Grimmauld Place?” Hermione asked. She and Harry were the only current students allowed in the meeting. “Dumbledore can’t have been the only person who could do it.”

“He wasn’t,” Remus said, “but that assumes none of us have revealed the secret, even accidentally. The Fidelius Charm is useless for a secret that everybody already knows.”

“The fact is, there aren’t many options,” Bill said. “It has to be private property. We can’t just use Hogwarts or any other place where a lot of people have to go in and out. And unless we’re desperate, it can’t be someplace any of us are actually living.”

“Minerva, don’t you have a family home near here?” Remus asked.

“My brother lives there now,” Professor McGonagall said. “I can ask, but I doubt he’ll be willing to use it as more than a safe house. Severus, I don’t suppose your house is in any condition—?”

“Pfft. A tiny muggle house in the poorest quarter of Cokeworth,” Snape said. “We couldn’t fit all of us in one room without magic. Besides, Narcissa Malfoy knows where it is.”

“Sirius has money,” Harry piped up. “So do I, for that matter. What if we just _bought_ a new headquarters?”

“That would leave a parchment trail,” Mad-Eye Moody growled. With Dumbledore gone, Moody was the best fighter and had already become the _de facto_ leader of the Order. “It’d be risky at best.”

“Even if you did it all through the muggle world?” Hermione said. “There’d still be a paper trail, but the Death Eaters wouldn’t have any idea where to look for it.”

That got some consideration. Several people looked to Snape. “It’s worth a thought,” he said. “It would still be difficult to hide it completely, but combined with a Fidelius Charm, it could work. It _would_ take time though. We need something to carry us through in the interim.”

Remus shook his head: “If it takes longer than the holidays, there’s not much we can do besides break the Order into cells in separate safe-houses—limited contact.”

“It’d be smart to do that anyway,” Moody said. “Much safer if our information is compartmentalised, even if it slows us down.”

Hermione nodded in agreement: “That’s how muggle resistance movements do it.”

“For goodness’ sake, Miss Granger, we’re not running a resistance movement!” McGonagall said.

“For how long, Professor? Everyone says the Ministry won’t last long without Dumbledore around. If that’s true, it’ll happen sooner or later. How long do we have before they’re co-opted?”

“I’m hopeful that we have at least a month,” said Snape. “The Dark Lord wants to have many of his people or Imperiused puppets in place in the Ministry to ensure success. That will take time with the increased security.”

“So set up the cells anyway,” Hermione said, “or at least the safe-houses, if we haven’t already. Sirius can look into getting us a new Headquarters—and anyone else who has a spare property available.”

“In other words, keep our options open,” Moody said. “Good to see someone has some sense around here. Best be warding your own homes, too. Can’t be too careful these days.”

Hermione couldn’t ward her own home—not to the standards she wanted—not in a muggle area. She was of age, now, but there were tight regulations on casting area-effect magic in a muggle neighbourhood, and if the Ministry were compromised, they could learn a lot more than she wanted them to. Come to think of it, they already had her address on file. That was bad.

She was already worried for her parents, but it was eating at her more and more the past few days. She couldn’t keep them safe while she was studying and helping the war effort at the same time, especially not when they were still running their dental clinic. This was something she’d need help with. She approached Fred and George after the meeting.

“What are you thinking, Hermione?” George asked.

“I’m thinking we need to do something about my parents,” she said.

“You mean like get them to a safe-house?”

“That’s one option. The thing is, the smart thing to do in their eyes would be to leave the country and take me with them.”

“That would be the _safe_ thing to do,” George agreed.

“I know, and they could do it pretty quickly, but I’m not going,” Hermione said. “For you, and for Harry.”

“The horcrux problem?” Fred said softy.

“Yes. Dumbledore left me all his material on the subject. He gave me the job of saving Harry’s life, and I’m not leaving it.”

“You know you could still back out,” George reminded her. “You could even work on the problem from overseas.”

“I’m in this to the end, George, just like you,” she said firmly. “Besides, I need to be close to Harry to examine him if I need to.”

“But you want your parents safe?” Fred clarified.

“Yes. Safe and as far away from Voldemort as possible. I won’t be able to focus if I’m worrying about them, too.”

Fred nodded. “We know how you feel,” he said. “You-Know-Who doesn’t just operate in Britain, though—Dolohov, Karkaroff, all that time he spent in Albania…”

Hermione’s face fell: “France won’t be far enough will it.”

“Not to hear Fleur tell it.”

Hermione bit her lip and tried to think.

“What do you want to do?” George asked, pulling his arm tighter around her shoulders.

“I don’t know…I had some ideas, but they’re pretty wild, and they’ll need some modifications…I think they’re still doable, but the hard part will be convincing my parents to leave without me.”

“Do you think you can?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? I’ve pushed harder than I ever wanted to already. I threatened to run away from home rather than go back to Beauxbatons. I know legally they can’t make me leave now, but I can’t make _them_ leave, either. So unless we do something _really_ drastic…” She shivered and shook her head. “Could you come and talk to them with me?”

“Of course we will, Hermione,” George said. “Don’t worry. We’ll find some way to make it work. And tell us what you’re planning, and we’ll see if we can improve it.”

“Alright, then. Let’s get started.”

* * *

The plan they hammered out was a decent one, but it was useless if they couldn’t convince her parents to go along with it. Hermione knew this would be the hardest part. That was one of the reasons she waited until after Christmas to break it to them. The Ministry was still standing, so that was good, but she was getting nervous. She really wasn’t sure how much time they’d have.

“Hermione, we’ve been ready to leave the country for a year now if we had to,” Mum said, “but you know we’re not leaving without you.”

“It’s not going to work, Mum. I _know_ you don’t want me in danger, and I know we’ve had this conversation about six times, now, but I’m not going to leave.”

“But why not?”

“The same reasons I told you before. I have to save Harry. I’m the only one who can.”

“You keep saying that, Hermione, but you’re only seventeen,” Dad said.

“It’s true, Mr. Granger,” George said. “And you know how brilliant your daughter is. She’s probably the smartest witch or wizard in Britain who’s still alive.”

Dad raised an eyebrow at her boyfriend, but she quickly intervened. “Statistically, given the small magical population of Britain, there’s a good chance he’s right,” she said. “And I could bring in Professor Snape or Professor Slughorn to confirm it. If I’m not the _only_ one who can do it, I certainly have the best chance. I’m sorry, but I have to stay.”

“Then I don’t see why we can’t either.”

“I _told_ you! Because the Death Eaters will _kill you!_ ” she shouted. “Even if you stayed in the country, you definitely can’t stay in this house, and you definitely can’t keep your practice. Our address is on file at the Ministry. All they’ll have to do is look it up.”

“But you said the Ministry doesn’t normally intervene in the muggle world,” Mum objected.

Hermione groaned: “The _current_ Ministry. It’ll be different when Voldemort takes over. You _know_ what people like him do to people like you, and Narcissa Malfoy already has a vendetta against me.”

“That’s _if_ he takes over the Ministry.”

“No, Mum, _when_ he takes over the Ministry. The time for maybes is over. Dumbledore is dead! Everyone who knows what they’re talking about and is honest about it says Voldemort’s going to make a move on the Ministry soon. And he’s going to _win_. I’ve seen him fight. The Ministry can’t repel firepower of that magnitude without Dumbledore’s help.”

There was silence in the living room for a minute.

“Did you just quote _Star Wars_ at us?” Dad asked.

Hermione thought back over her words. “Bloody hell, I did, didn’t I? I think I need more sleep. But it doesn’t change anything. If you stayed in this country, the only way to keep you safe would be to send you to a safe-house. You wouldn’t be able to leave. It would effectively be house arrest, and you’d be dependent on others to bring supplies. If the Secret-Keeper were killed, you could be compromised—or worse, cut off entirely with no way to get information in—and if you were compromised, you’d be sitting ducks, and I…” He voice broke. “I…wouldn’t be able to…protect you.”

“Hermione, it’s not your responsibility—” Dad started.

“YES, IT BLOODY WELL IS!” she yelled, startling her parents and George and Fred back into their seats. “Face it. I have magic, and you don’t.” She pulled out her wand and held it out to them. “You see this? I can turn this into a shotgun, a pistol, a stun gun, a bulletproof shield, a _hand grenade_ , poison gas, and a hundred nastier weapons in half a second. I carry _three_ of them on me at all times. And the Death Eaters are even worse. They can mind-control you to kill your own family, torture you until you have so much brain damage you become a vegetable, and if they’re in a hurry, they’ll just use an instant death curse. You know I’ve spent the past five and a half years telling anyone who will listen that wizards aren’t any better than muggles, but the fact is, when it comes to fighting, if you’ve got anything short of a machine gun, we _are!_ ”

Her parents looked on in horror. She lowered her wand, which she’d be brandishing like a sword, and slumped down onto the sofa in tears. Even George was warily keeping his distance. That wasn’t the kind of thing one usually heard a muggle-born or an advocate for muggles say. “I can protect myself…” Hermione continued haltingly. “But I can’t protect you…I wish I could so much…but I can’t.”

Mum got up and went to her daughter, pulling her into a tight hug. Hermione leaned her head against her chest and cried it out.

“Hermione, I didn’t know…” Mum started, then corrected herself: “I’ve never heard you talk that way before.”

Hermione sighed softly: “You’ve heard me say plenty about how amazing magic is. That’s not that far different. But it has a dark side, too—a dark side filled with horrible things—things that are deadly beyond all reason. Look, muggles are pretty amazing too. We put a man on the moon. We have computers that can connect the world. And yes, I’ll say it: _we_. I still consider myself half a muggle and proud of it. But for all that, you can’t win a fight against a wizard who’s bent on killing you.”

Fred and George watched, mostly providing moral support, although the Grangers could tell they wanted to help. “Look, Mr. and Mrs. Granger,” Fred offered, “I don’t know much about muggle fighting, but if Hermione says you can’t win that fight, I believe her. She’s not trying to sell you a bill of goods or anything like that. She knows what she’s talking about.”

“We know, Fred,” Mum replied. “We trust Hermione, too. This is just hard to accept…”

“We already know all that stuff about magic, Hermione,” Dad said. “Okay, I don’t think we realised that the safe-house problem was so serious, but you don’t need to tell us how dangerous magic is. We’ve seen enough of that to understand. We were just hoping you’d be willing to come with us.”

She shook her head: “I’m sorry. I told you why I can’t. Besides, after the things I’ve done, I’m probably pretty high on Voldemort’s hit list. It would be safer for all of us if we split up.”

Mum and Dad exchanged one of those silent conversations. It was eerie, the way parents could do that—and eerily like how George and Fred communicated. She thought she could do a decent job with Harry or even George, but not on that level. Not yet.

“God help me,” Dad said, “but I think you’re right.”

“I don’t want to accept it, but you’ve made it pretty clear,” Mum agreed.

“So you’ll go?” Hermione asked.

Dad sighed heavily: “Within reason, yes.”

“You know we’re going to worry the whole time,” Mum said. “I wish it didn’t have to be this way, but you’ve clearly made your decision.”

Hermione sighed with relief. “Thank you,” she said.

“But that’s not the only problem,” Dad pointed out. “You said something about France not being far enough.”

“I’m afraid not, Mr. Granger,” George agreed. “You-Know-Who has agents all over Europe.”

“Australia would be better,” Hermione said. “It would be doable, although I’d be worried about you being found out even there…It would be…it would be better if you got new identities. Of course, even _then_ , there’s the risk of slipping up—not a big risk if you stay away from the magical world, but it’s still there. The absolute _safest_ thing you could do would be to make sure you yourselves couldn’t reveal your identities…” she trailed off and looked at her parents expectantly.

Mum stopped, holding her out at arm’s length, and immediately became stern. “Hermione, if you’re saying you want to alter our memories, we are drawing the line there. We are _not_ letting you do _that_ to us, and frankly, I’m surprise you would even suggest it. I thought you hated mind-altering magic.”

Hermione gave her parents an uncomfortable smile: “I thought you would say that, Mum. It was just an idea. Someplace like Australia with false identities should be plenty.”

“But if we’re going to do that, we’ll need to move fast,” Fred jumped in. “How soon can you two get out of here?”

“Whoa, whoa, you two,” Dad said. “When we said we were ready to leave, that didn’t mean literally at a moment’s notice. We need time to pack, at least, book the plane tickets, deal with the immigration issues. This is a complicated process, you know, especially going outside of Europe.”

“We may not have much time,” Hermione pleaded. “We really don’t know how long the Ministry is going to stand.”

“We’ll just have to do the best we can, but it’s going to take at least a few days,” Dad replied. “Be thankful you convinced us at all. I still don’t like it.”

Hermione’s heart sank. She felt like she’d taken too long with this as it was. “You know I’m going to be worried the whole time,” she echoed.

“We’ll do our best,” Dad promised.

“I just hope it’ll be enough,” she said.

* * *

It was technically New Year’s day, just after midnight when the cloaked figure came. Most muggles in Crawley were already asleep, too busy celebrating, or too drunk to notice anything awry at first. The house at Number 17 Salisbury Road was lighted, but relatively quiet. Nice, calm family gatherings were more typical in that part of town. No one noticed when a single dark-cloaked figure appeared from nowhere in the middle of the street with a soft crack. One witness who happened to be looking out the window at that moment noticed an odd-looking figure in a black robe and a white mask crossing the street, but thought it was just some weird hooligan at the time.

The cloaked figure stopped to check the name on the mailbox and proceeded up the front walk. It was only when they blasted the front door in with a small explosion that the neighbours noticed. Bright, coloured flashes of light, loud bangs and other, indeterminate sounds, and blood-curdling screams issued from Number 17. Windows blew out. The lights flickered off. There was a bang that was later determined to be the television exploding. The house was badly damaged, cracked down to the foundation, but the attack finally ended with two bright flashes of sickly green light, after which the house caught on fire.

The dark, cloaked figure stepped out of the flames, raised their wand to the sky, and conjured a ghostly green shape of a skull with a snake emerging from its mouth above the house. Then, as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished into the shadows.

The house burnt hot and fast. By the time the fire department arrived and put out the flames, it was a total loss. An hour later, two bodies were pulled from the wreckage. They showed evidence of both lacerations and gunshot wounds, but they were so badly burnt that they had to be identified from their dental records. There was a sort of sick irony that they were a pair of dentists—Daniel and Emma Granger, the owners of the house, survived by one daughter who had been at a friend’s house for the holiday. Muggle witnesses variously described it as a robbery gone wrong or else a bizarre terrorist attack.

* * *

Molly Weasley was the first one up at the Burrow on New Year’s morning—a habit borne of years of feeding a large family and keeping chickens besides. But she was immediately on alert when she heard a whimpering sound and a feeble knock at the door. Wand drawn, she peaked through the curtain and then quickly threw open the door to find a sobbing Hermione Granger standing on her front porch.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Weasley,” she choked out. “I just…I just didn’t have anywhere else to go.”


	46. Chapter 46

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling’s clock position: probably HOME, but I haven’t been keeping track.
> 
> Several reviewers pointed out that the presence of “lacerations and gunshot wounds” suggests that Hermione’s spells were used in the attack. That was not my intended meaning. That was what was found by the muggle medical examiner and thus told to the neighbours. Similarly, that Hermione was at a friend’s house was also what was told to the neighbours by the Ministry.

It was a testament to how close Hermione’s relationship with all the Weasleys was that Mrs. Weasley—Molly, she insisted on calling her—immediately called George on the Floo without being asked, and he and Fred came over from their flat at once to comfort her. Ron and Ginny were there too and nearly panicked when they heard what happened. Yes, her parents were muggles living in a muggle area, but they knew she had taken extra precautions with them including having Dumbledore set up their wards. It really drove home how much danger they were all in as members of the Order of the Phoenix.

Harry was devastated. With his limited contact with the muggle world, the Grangers had been the only muggles who had ever _truly_ been kind to him, and it hurt him more than even he expected to lose them. He himself had been at the Burrow for the holiday, although he’d been shuffled from safe-house to safe-house all week as they tried to secure the rest of the Order.

Bill and Fleur were both at the Burrow, as they had been last summer, and even without knowing what happened, Fleur took one look at Hermione and swept her up in a hug that was very comforting until the Veela pheromones got too thick, and Hermione had a sudden, wild urge to kiss the woman, at which point she gently pulled herself away. Nonetheless, Fleur had plenty of sympathy for her friend and quickly whipped up a cup of tea and a light breakfast for her.

Percy was…still nowhere to be found. From what she could gather, he was still resentful of the split in the family last year, even though it was his own fault. Disturbingly, his hand on the clock pointed to _LOST_. She wasn’t sure if that was less or more disturbing than everyone else _including Charlie_ pointing to _MORTAL PERIL._

George was grim and stoic when he arrived, giving Hermione a shoulder to cry on, though he didn’t seem to have any words for her. Molly offered Hermione a calming draught, but she found it left her unnaturally apathetic and speaking in monotone, so she didn’t accept another.

Once Hermione was coherent enough to give a statement, the Aurors were called, and Kingsley came so that she would see a familiar face. Seeing as the victims were muggles, the Ministry cared little besides the fact the Dark Mark had been cast over the house, but he assured her they were duty-bound to investigate the Death Eaters’ activities. They also had to Obliviate the neighbours and come up with a plausible explanation for the destruction of the house. Hermione’s ever-analytic mind suggested an IRA-led drive-by shooting and firebombing combined with a case of mistaken identity.

Hermione told Kingsley that she had been celebrating the New Year with George and Fred and went home after midnight, so she didn’t have anything to say about the attack. She’d gone to the Burrow afterwards because she was worried about how people would react to her spending the night at the Twins’ flat.

“Oh, Hermione,” Molly said sadly. “No one would have thought anything of the kind. Where else would you have gone but to the next most important person in your life?”

“I know, but I was distraught at the time,” she said, sniffling. “And really, you and Arthur have been like second parents to me every time I visited.”

“Well, you’re welcome to stay as long as you need,” Molly replied. “We’ve always enjoyed having you here. I only wish it were under better circumstances.”

“Thank you, Molly,” she said with another sniffed. “I don’t know how I can repay you.”

“No need for that, dear. You’re as good as family already, just like Harry.”

“Well, if that’s all you can tell us, Miss Granger, I’ll be going,” Kingsley said. “Rest assured we will do everything in our power to bring your parents’ murderer to justice.” That didn’t mean much when the murderer was a Death Eater—especially not these days—but she appreciated the sentiment.

Snape also dropped by that evening to give the Weasleys any critical information from the Death Eater meeting that happened that day. “I have insinuated to the Dark Lord without revealing too many details that the Order has a way of moving Potter without tripping the Trace,” he said. “He is not planning any operations to capture him.”

“Well, that’s some good news, at least,” Arthur said.

“Not entirely,” Snape replied. “The Dark Lord is moving up his plans to take over the Ministry instead. The Head of the DMLE has already been compromised.”

Molly gasped. “Are we safe here?” she said.

“As safe as you can be. The Death Eaters can’t risk a public move against your home. The Dark Lord is focusing on the Minister. Unfortunately, we have less time than I expected. I suspect no more than two weeks before he makes his move.”

“How is he going to do it?” Arthur said, businesslike.

“Scrimgeour will be assassinated,” Snape said. “That will be the Dark Lord’s only overt action. Thickness will be installed as Minister, and he will send out his tentacles from the top until he controls a complete puppet government from the shadows.”

“Well, we have to do something!” Molly exclaimed. “Can’t we stop him? Get Thickness out or something?”

“Not without tipping him off that the Order knows what he’s planning—and it would only delay the inevitable. I have passed on the word to the Aurors in our number. I am hoping we can move Scrimgeour out alive when the attack comes so that we can mount a counter-coup at a later date. For what it’s worth, Moody and Shacklebolt agree with me.”

“Should you be telling us this, Professor,” Hermione spoke up weakly.

Everyone turned to her. “Excuse me?” Snape said.

“Shouldn’t we be compartmentalising our plans at this point?”

“We are keeping that in mind, Miss Granger, but in this case, it is more important to forewarn everyone of the impending attack.”

“Severus, what about Arthur?” Molly said fearfully. “If they’re going to be Imperiusing people in the Ministry…”

Snape shook his head: “I highly doubt that the Death Eaters consider your husband important enough to co-opt. And they will know that we will be especially vigilant for suspicious behaviour from our own. And it would attract too much attention to kill him.”

“I’ll be careful just the same, Severus,” Arthur said. “Was there anything else.”

He looked over at Hermione. “Only that Miss Granger is a high-priority target, which was fairly obvious to begin with…Incidentally, Miss Granger, I _have_ found out who killed your parents.”

She looked up in surprise, her nostrils flaring. “Who?”

* * *

_Hours Earlier_

“It has come to my attention,” Lord Voldemort told his Death Eaters at Malfoy Manor, “that the parents of the mudblood Hermione Granger were conspicuously murdered last night under my Mark. An interesting move—perhaps a risky one, given the mudblood’s unusual capabilities—but certainly a strong blow to the enemy’s morale. If their ‘secret weapon’, as some say, can’t even protect her own family, what good is she to anyone else? Which of you was responsible for this?”

“I was, my Lord,” Severus Snape reported.

Voldemort raised an eyebrow and turned to his spy. “ _You_ , Severus?”

“Me, my Lord,” he confirmed. “As her former teacher, it was easy for me to acquire her address. I wished to redeem myself for my failure to protect Draco at the school.” He didn’t meet Narcissa’s eyes. _Even though it was his own fool fault for stunning me,_ went unsaid. “As Potter is reserved to you, she was the next best target.”

“And yet the mudblood still lives,” the Dark Lord pointed out.

“Unfortunately, she was not at home. However, I caused sufficient devastation to send a powerful message.”

“You did indeed, from my sources. However, won’t this make your position as a teacher rather difficult? Surely killing your students’ parents is frowned upon.” There was some quiet snickering from the other Death Eaters.

“I left no witnesses alive, my Lord,” Snape replied coolly. “The Aurors have no reason to suspect me over any other Death Eater.”

“Indeed. Perhaps, to complete the illusion, we should lay the credit at another’s feet as a public matter. You will, of course, still be rewarded, Severus. You have proved your true colours—” Voldemort said this with a reproving glance at Bellatrix. “—and I commend your initiative.”

* * *

“Dolohov,” Snape said.

Mrs. Weasley gasped.

“He took the curse you hit him with last year very personally,” Snape said. “His attack was unsanctioned, but the Dark Lord was pleased with the result, and Dolohov was quick to claim the credit. He also expressed his eagerness to ‘finish the job’.”

“That—that _bastard!_ ” Molly growled. “That utter _bastard!_ ”

“It sounds like he can get in line at this point,” Hermione said dismissively. “I’ll show him if he comes after me again.”

“Not without me, you won’t,” George said fiercely.

“And me,” Fred added.

“Fred, George,” Molly snapped. “You have to be _careful_. You _know_ what he did.”

“Yes, Mum,” George said, “but Uncle Gideon and Uncle Fabian didn’t have _Hermione_.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “I’ll leave you to your revenge plotting, then. Do try not to get killed. It would be most inconvenient. Miss Granger, you have my condolences.” He turned and left, leaving the Weasleys, Harry, and Hermione to themselves. But as soon as she heard the crack of Snape Apparating away, Hermione’s composure broke. She cracked up laughing, starting low and building to a full-on Wicked Witch’s _cackle_ before she calmed down.

“Hermione?” Molly said. “Oh, poor dear, she’s gone mad.”

“Dolohov,” she chuckled darkly. “Oh, that is just perfect. He doesn’t know what he’s stepped in, taking credit for that. Haha! All according to plan.”

“Hermione, what are you talking about?” said Molly.

Hermione turned and gave the Weasleys a ghastly grin: “Molly, I know for a fact that Dolohov did _not_ kill my parents.”

“What? Why on Earth do you say that?”

“Because they’re _not dead._ ”

“…What?”

* * *

_One Day Earlier_

Daniel and Emma Granger, disguised, stood at the gate in Heathrow Airport for their daughter, her boyfriend, and his twin, also disguised, to see them off as Snape’s Muffling Charm hid their conversation from the outside world.

“Thank you for doing this,” Hermione told her parents. “I’ll rest a lot easier when you’re safely on the other side of the world.”

“And we’ll be up every night worrying if you’re alright,” Mum replied. “And out of contact! I know you’ve done a lot, but you’ve never _really_ been on your own before.”

“Hey, she won’t be alone, Mrs. Granger. She’ll have us,” George protested. “We’ll take good care of her.”

Dad gave him a sharp look: “You make sure you do, young man. One day we’ll be back, and when that day comes, you’ll have to answer to _us_.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Make sure she remembers to sleep,” Mum said.

“Mum!”

“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady. You know how you get when you don’t sleep.”

“I can take care of myself, Mum.”

“There’s more to taking care of yourself than staying alive, Hermione,” Mum said sternly. “Most people don’t learn it until their early thirties. And here, you’re going to be fighting…I still can’t picture you as a soldier, even with what you’ve shown us.”

“Appearances are deceiving with magic, Mrs. Granger,” Fred said. “It’s why a white-haired old man is— _was_ —the most powerful wizard in the world.”

“And why our pint-sized little sister can kick the butts of Slytherin thugs twice her size,” George added.

“And why we’re more scared of our mum than most of the Death Eaters.”

“Well, that’s just ‘cause she’s Mum,” George argued.

“True enough, brother, but Hermione’s even scarier than Mum. At least Mum can’t invent new hexes in her head. I don’t know how _you_ do it.”

“By being the suave twin, obviously.” George casually draped an arm around Hermione’s shoulder, but he backed off when her dad cleared his throat.

“ _Anyway_ , Mum, Dad, they’re right,” Hermione told them. “In the magical, world, the wand is the great equaliser, much more than the gun is in the muggle world. It’s why we’ve had equality for witches since…pretty much the beginning, really. And I can fight…Look, you two are dentists. People joke about how you can strike fear into the hearts of the strongest men. But I’ve been studying your old pathophysiology textbooks, and I have _magic_.” She paused to let that sink in. Her parents already had an inkling of what she was doing, but they still paled as they understood the implications of that. “Frankly, I can make what you do look like child’s play…When I left you, I was but the learner. Now, I am the master.”

“Only a master of evil, Darth,” Dad said with much less humour than he was trying for.

“A master of whatever it takes to get me and the people I love out of this alive,” she corrected. “ _Star Wars_ doesn’t have _all_ the answers. Luke succeeded going _against_ Yoda’s advice, you know?” Okay, this metaphor was starting to run away from her. George and Fred just stared at her in confusion.

“Yes,” Dad said, “but I also know we didn’t raise our daughter to be cruel and violent.”

“No, you didn’t,” she said. “Voldemort did that. I’m not going to become a murderer, Dad. I’m not going to sink to his level. But I _will_ defend myself and my friends. With deadly force, if necessary.”

Mum and Dad looked on sadly. “You…you seem to have accepted a fight to the death pretty easily,” Mum said hesitantly.

“People have already died, Mum,” she said. “Honestly, it started back at the Department of Mysteries. I’ve had time to get there since then.”

“But you’ll still get the help you need if it comes to it?” asked Dad.

“Of course,” she said.

“Alright, then…” Mum said. She glanced at the men. “Could I talk with you privately for a minute, Hermione?”

Hermione nodded and led Mum a short distance away, casting another _Muffliato_ to cover them. Mum grabbed her and hugged her tightly before holding her at arm’s length and looking her up and down. “You’ve grown up too fast, Hermione,” she said.

“Blame that on Voldemort, too,” she responded.

“You can’t blame everything on Voldemort. _You_ _’ve_ done a lot of it yourself. The things you’ve done—and not just fighting. Only seventeen, and you’re this close to a master’s degree if you wanted it. We’re very proud of you, but it’s scary to see our daughter growing up so fast.”

“I’m just doing the best I can, Mum.”

“I know you are, but it doesn’t change anything…So…George.”

“…Yes?” Hermione asked nervously.

“I know how he feels about you,” Mum said. “I just want you to tell me truthfully…Do you love him?”

Hermione looked over at George, staring, thinking about everything they’d been through together, especially over the past couple of weeks—the way he and Fred had helped her with this escape, the way he supported her, but also put in the effort to rein her in and keep her sane. She was still trying to sort through her feelings, and the constant distraction of the war wasn’t helping matters, but… “Truthfully…?” she said. “I still don’t know yet. But…after today—after _this_ —I think I’m really falling for him—properly, I mean.”

Mum nodded knowingly: “It’s easier for someone with more experience to see it. I think you’re good for each other, despite how different you are—except you’re not really that different at all, are you?”

Hermione thought about that. “Not where it really matters; I don’t think so.”

“Then good luck to both of you, then. Just _be careful_ with him,” Mum said with a pointed look that made it clear what she meant.

Hermione rolled her eyes again: “Honestly, Mum, I told you ages ago that every self-respecting witch over the age of fourteen can cast the Contraceptive Charm in her sleep.” After she gave her mum a moment to get that uncomfortable look on her face, she added, “And I think I’ll be rather more preoccupied by the war for the duration.”

“Fine, but it’s still my duty as a mother to tell you.” She pulled her back to Dad and hugged her again. “I love you, Hermione. Stay safe.”

“ _You_ stay safe, Mum. I love you, too. Find a quiet corner of Australia, and stay out of history’s way.”

Dad chuckled. “ _Star Trek_ , now?”

She shot him an evil grin: “Resistance is futile.” She hugged him, too, and George and Fred shook Mum’s and Dad’s hands, and they sent them on their way to Sydney. Meanwhile, the three magicals left to put the next phase of their plan into action.

* * *

“George, Fred, and I staged the whole thing,” she explained. “Disguised my parents and sent them to Australia with false identities. They have a contact for the Australian Ministry if the muggle authorities give them trouble, but I hope they don’t have to use it. I used their connections to acquire a pair of cadavers from the dental school and transfigured them to look like them—”

“You did _what?_ ” Molly gasped.

“Dental schools do that too?” Harry said in surprise, then he looked around and saw everyone staring at him. “What?” he said.

“Look, it was pretty creepy to us, too, but it made sense when Hermione explained it,” Fred said.

“ _You_ two? You went along with this—this grave-robbing, too?” Molly said.

“It was _not_ grave-robbing, Molly,” Hermione said firmly. “It was in accordance with their last wishes. Not exactly, I’ll admit, but much nearer than you think. You may think our muggle surgeons are barbaric, but they’re all we have—or all _they_ have,” she corrected for the Weasleys’ sakes. “We don’t have magical healers, and doctors can’t afford to make mistakes in training. Therefore, there are certain muggles who, when they die, instead of being buried, choose to donate their bodies as an act of charity to be used to train new doctors—including dentists—so they don’t have to train on live people. Yes, it’s stretching the bequest a little, but I like to think they’d be happy that they saved lives even in death.”

The Weasleys were all surprised. Ron and Fleur looked a bit ill. Arthur was intrigued, but even he seemed taken aback. “Goodness,” he said, “I knew muggles found clever solutions for these things, but I never knew they did things like that.”

“More than you think, Arthur,” Hermione confirmed. “Most muggles—they might look a little askance at it, but they would certainly accept why we had to do it. We transfigured the bodies to look like my parents, which wasn’t that hard. I’ve been doing pretty well with human transfiguration with Professor Slughorn, and a dead body is easier to transfigure than a live one. I made extra sure to get the teeth right from their dental records.”

“Dental records?” Ron said.

“If muggle bodies are damaged too badly to be identified by sight or other obvious markings, they can usually be identified by the shape of their teeth. Everyone’s teeth are different, and most muggles have photographs of their teeth on file somewhere. It’s my parents’ business after all.

“Anyway, we planted the bodies in their house, packed up everything that couldn’t be replaced, and put it in my Gringotts vault, then replaced everything that was gone with junk or duplicates, so the house wouldn’t look cleaned out when I…burned it.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead. “I’ve got the money to replace it, but still…” If someone had told her even a year ago that she’d wind up deliberately burning down her own house to fake her parents’ deaths, she would have said they were mad.

“And then you staged a Death Eater attack?” Harry said.

“Yes. Transfigured a Death Eater mask and robe, blasted in the door just after midnight, cast a bunch of curses to make it look like a I was ‘having fun’ with the muggles, finished with two green flashes and setting the house on fire, and cast the Dark Mark over it.”

Everyone gasped. _“What?”_ Molly said. She rose to her feet and put her hands on her hips. “And just _how_ did you learn how to cast the Dark Mark, young lady?”

“Bribed Slughorn with crystallised pineapple,” she said flatly. “I was lucky to catch him before he went on the run. I used a homemade wand to do it and snapped it afterwards, so no one can trace it. Put it all together, and it looks like a Death Eater who went rogue and did the job himself. Dolohov just made my life easier by taking the credit.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron summed it up. “So you faked your folks’ deaths, _and_ learnt dark magic to keep them safe?”

“I take my family’s safety seriously.” She looked around at the group.

“But Hermione,” Molly said, “why didn’t you just _tell_ us?”

“I had to make it look convincing. Not to you, but to the Death Eaters. Now, there have been Ministry officials and Snape who’ve seen you give authentic reactions, which should mean they won’t look as closely at you later, even though you know now.”

“And from _you_ ,” Ginny pointed out. “I didn’t know you could cry on cue like that.”

 _“Lacrimosa._ I didn’t even need a quill and parchment to create it,” Hermione replied. “I’m sorry for hurting you like that, but I thought it was the best way. Anyway, it’s still a risk, but you deserve the truth, and if all goes well, Mum and Dad are someplace no wizards can find them.”

“Trust me, Mum, it’s better this way,” George defended her.

“And _you_ —” Molly said. “You went along with this?”

Fred half-grinned: “Of course, Mum. Pulling a prank like that on the Death Eaters? Pretty creepy, mind you—”

“—but a good one,” George finished. “It really will protect Hermione’s parents, and I wanted to be there for her.”

“Besides, compared with her other ideas, this was tame,” Fred agreed.

“Tame? What other ideas?” Molly asked worriedly.

Hermione blushed: “Most of my other ideas involved memory charms, but I couldn’t justify that, and my parents would never have agreed.”

Molly didn’t seem to know what to say to that.

“Wait a minute,” Ginny piped up. “If the whole thing was staged, then why did Dolohov take credit for it?”

Hermione smiled: “A little trust goes a long way.”

* * *

_Two Days Earlier_

“So let me get this straight, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “You’re going to fake your parents’ deaths so you can sneak them out of the country…and you want _me_ to take credit for it.”

“It would be suspicious if we faked a Death Eater attack, and no one took credit for it,” Hermione responded. “We were hoping that if someone we trusted on the inside claimed it, it would draw attention away.”

“It’s the perfect plan,” George said beside her, and she elbowed him. Hard.

“It is _not_ , Weasley. Did it not occur to you, Miss Granger, that such a plan would make it rather difficult for me at Hogwarts?” he demanded.

“But would anyone else have to know, Professor?” she pleaded. “You could tell Vol—You-Know-Who,” she corrected when he glared at her. “—you did it, but not declare it outside the Death Eaters. And wouldn’t it be a credible claim that you did it prove your loyalty to him?”

Snape looked strangely thoughtful as he considered this, nodding to himself very slightly. “And you truly trust me that much, Miss Granger?”

“Yeah, do you?” Fred muttered in annoyance.

“Frankly, sir, I saw how you reacted to Dumbledore’s death.” she said. “Yes, I trust you.”

“Hmm…Perhaps something can be arranged, then.”

* * *

“So right now, your parents are…? Arthur asked.

“Probably just touched down in Australia, and hopefully staying far away from wizards,” Hermione confirmed. “When the war’s over Dobby will be able to find them from inside the country, but no one else will.”

“Well, then,” he replied, “I can’t say I agree with your methods, but I admire your dedication. Where will you go from here? You could stay with us, of course. I know you’re of age, but I’m not sure I’d be quite comfortable with you moving in with George.”

Hermione blushed again and said, “For appearances’ sake, I think it’s best if I stay here for now. Also, Harry and I need to discuss some things with Bill.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s this about?” he asked.

Harry looked to Hermione: “The you-know-whats?”

“Yes, the you-know-whats. Bill, Dumbledore left the two of us a job to do. It could be the key to beating Voldemort. But we could really use a cursebreaker.”

“Of course. Anything you need. We can talk tomorrow morning now that there’s not a pressing need to go over the wards again—if the Death Eaters didn’t _really_ get through yours…”

Oh—! Bill was planning to revise the wards in response to the attack on Hermione’s parents? That was kind of awkward. But Hermione and Harry agreed to talk to him in the morning, and the family and guests gradually went to bed. Hermione was staying in Ginny’s room—would be the _only_ one staying in Ginny’s room if and when Ginny went back to school, which would be kind of weird. Hermione herself didn’t have to go back, being of age, which simplified things. She could self-study and take her N.E.W.T.s anytime. Harry was a little more difficult. They still weren’t sure what they were going to do about that.

Once Ginny and Hermione were alone in Ginny’s room, the younger girl came out with her request: “Hermione, I want you to get the Trace off me.”

“Wh-what?” Hermione said.

“I know you took the Trace off yourself and Harry. I want in, too. I get the feeling you might need to go on the run sometime soon, and I can’t do you and Harry any good if they can track my movements with the Trace. Ron’ll be of age in two months, but I’ve still got all of next year and most of that summer before I am. It’ll be bad enough that Mum and Dad won’t want me to fight. I won’t be able to stand being the only one left holding us back because I can be tracked.”

“Yes, that’s good point,” Hermione said.

“I—you agree?” Ginny said.

“I probably would have anyway after I did it for Harry, but you’re right, if Voldemort _does_ take over the Ministry, the Trace will be too dangerous to have on you.” She hadn’t thought about it before, but the Trace would be an absolutely _devastating_ weapon in the hands of a tyrannical regime—and all the more cruel because it meant families could be tracked via their children. Ginny would be a liability to Molly and Arthur, not just to their little clique. That was seriously Orwellian stuff.

“I’ll have to ask Bill for the layout of the local ley lines,” Hermione concluded. “If there’s one close enough, we’ll be able to do it in a few minutes. If not, we might have to go to London.”

“There should be one running under the Burrow,” Ginny said. “It’s a magical house, after all.”

“Hmm, there might be, but I’m not certain. The land was bought from what was available, not selected, and the house isn’t original—the foundation used to be a pigpen. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t built with ley lines in mind.”

“Ah—yes, maybe,” Ginny agreed. “But there’d _have_ to be one under the Diggorys’ place. They have a manor house. And Luna’s house probably has, too.”

Hermione remembered the Lovegoods’ miniature castle that looked like a giant chess piece. That was _definitely_ wizard-built, and she was pretty sure Luna’s family would build on active magic if at all possible. “Yes, you’re right,” she agreed. “Then we’ll try to take care of it tomorrow. I’m not comfortable leaving something like that hanging.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you’d be more serious about it than me, but thanks.”

Hermione smiled at her: “It’s a muggle trait. We’ve seen it too many times to ignore.”

She left Ginny to chew on that as they went to sleep.

* * *

“Horcruxes,” Bill whispered, slumping down in his seat. “And you say he made _seven_?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “We have solid testimony from Professor Slughorn. Two have been destroyed already, but unfortunately, we don’t know where two of the others are, and we don’t even know _what_ one of them is.”

“Not to mention the one in Harry’s bloody head. Good God!” Bill looked around. They’d met in Arthur’s shed for privacy, and Hermione was idly trying to organise his collection of electrical equipment into some semblance of order and plain safety. “Who else knows about this?” Bill demanded.

“To my knowledge, George, Fred, Ginny, and Ron,” Hermione said. “Harry, did you—?”

“No,” he said. He looked a little embarrassed. “It never seemed like a good time to tell Sirius or Remus.”

“Okay, before you tell anyone else, tell Sirius _alone_ and let him make the call,” he told Harry. “We tell no one else in my family—especially Mum. If there’s anything worse than how she’ll react to Harry, it’ll be how she’ll react to the amount of dark magic we’ll have to dig into if we really want to try to save him.”

Hermione nodded. She could see Molly reacting poorly to that. It wouldn’t slow her down, of course, but it would certainly make things more unpleasant. “We probably shouldn’t let Moody find out, either.”

Bill and Harry looked at each other in horror and said, “Agreed.”

“Which also means we’re better off with you to help us follow up on the lead Dumbledore gave us than him,” she added. She respected Mad-Eye a lot really, but she didn’t want to give him any more clues than necessary on this. Maybe it was his paranoia rubbing off on her, but she wouldn’t put it past him to kill Harry and hang the prophecy.

On second thought, it was _definitely_ his paranoia rubbing off on her.

“Okay,” Bill said, taking a deep breath. “So Dumbledore did give you a lead?”

“Just the one. The second one is Voldemort’s snake, and the third…” She glanced over at Harry.

“Right. So let’s see it.”

Hermione pulled out Dumbledore’s notes on the horcrux hiding place. “A sea-cave near Southend-on-Sea. Voldemort apparently went there as a child and tortured two other children there.”

Bill shuddered. “Ugh, a child You-Know-Who,” he said. “That’s an image I could do without.”

“True. Anyway, the bad news is that we don’t know anything about the protections—only that Dumbledore looked it over and said it looked like some kind of magical vault. I can only guess that it’ll be as dangerous as the shack was, but frankly, I’m worried about the two that we don’t have any leads on.”

“Actually, I’ve been thinking about that,” Harry spoke up.

Both of them turned to him. “You have?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Yeah. You know, Tom Riddle was an orphan, wasn’t he?”

“Yes…?” Hermione said.

“Dumbledore said Voldemort hid his horcruxes in places that were important to him. I reckon he might have hid something at Hogwarts.”

Hermione considered that. She wasn’t sure she bought it. Bill was even more sceptical. “In the school?” he said. “I don’t know, Harry.”

Harry shook his head: “You’ve never been an orphan, Bill. You can’t understand—neither of you—how much that means to someone like that.”

“To _you_ , Harry, sure,” Bill said. “But this is You-Know-Who we’re talking about.”

“To him, too,” Harry insisted. “Yeah, he made followers there instead of friends, but he still grew up in an orphanage where he never fit in. I’d bet a lot of gold that Hogwarts was the first place that really felt like home to him, even if he had a screwed up idea of what home was. And there’s something else: remember Riddle’s diary? That one time I wrote in it, and it showed me a memory, Riddle asked if he could stay at Hogwarts for the summer as a student. That’s what I would have done if I could. He didn’t want to go back to the orphanage.”

Hermione nodded slowly: “I can see where you’re coming from, Harry, although to be fair, it was also the middle of World War II at the time. But do you really think he could have hidden it under Dumbledore’s nose?”

Harry shrugged: “Dumbledore didn’t know _all_ of Hogwarts’ secrets.”

Her eyes widened when she made the connection. “You’re thinking the Chamber of Secrets, maybe?”

“It would make sense,” Harry said. “It’s at Hogwarts, associated with Slytherin, and he would’ve thought only he could get in.”

“That _is_ a good lead,” Bill agreed. “If you can get us in, Harry, we can check it once school starts again.”

“But the Chamber is huge, though,” Hermione pointed out. “Is there a horcrux-detecting spell or something we can use to speed it up?”

“Hmm…not as such, I don’t think. I’ve never heard of one in cursebreaking, but the dark magic would be hard to miss, even in a place like the Chamber of Secrets.”

Hermione frowned. “I supposed if that’s all we have,” she said. “I just wonder—this may sound daft, but what about a soul-detecting spell of some kind?”

“A soul-detecting spell?” Bill said in a way that made her feel uncomfortably like a foolish child. “That’s…well, that’s…” He stopped and grew more thoughtful. “Okay, arithmancy isn’t my field, but if you can break down the horcrux ritual as much as you say, it might be possible.”

“And it might help me solve Harry’s problem, too.”

“True. But it’s not critical for _finding_ them, so we don’t need to worry about that. But for either lead, I’ll need to think of a plausible excuse for Mum and Dad, and it’ll probably have to wait for next week, at least. And there’s still You-Know-Who’s move against the Ministry that we’re expecting to happen soon.”

“Yes, and there’s something else I need to take care of before that,” Hermione said.

“Oh? What’s that?” asked Bill.

She gave him a mischievous smile and said, “What can you tell me about the ley lines around here?”

* * *

“Psst. Ginny. Wake up,” Hermione whispered in the dark.

“Go ‘way. Need sleep,” Ginny mumbled.

“You wanted me to get the Trace off you. This is the best time to do it without getting caught—before your parents get up.”

Ginny roused herself fairly quickly. “Fine. Fine. This won’t take long, will it?” she groaned.

“Not that long. We just need to get outside the wards.”

They bundled up and traipsed out into the mud. It didn’t get that cold in Devon, but it was still an hour before dawn in early January, and wet. Ginny was not happy going out at that hour, but she followed along. When they got past the edge of the Burrow’s wards, Hermione triangulated the Lovegoods’ and Diggorys’ houses and found the ley line.

According to Bill, there were five major ley line intersections in Devon, and the Diggorys’ manor was built on one of them. Those ley lines did, indeed, run under all four of the wizarding homes in Ottery St. Catchpole, which was one of the reasons the Burrow was so far out from the village.

Hermione paused contemplatively in the quiet of the early morning and looked to the east. It was very dark—no moon right now, and not much light from the village. Low on the horizon, she saw a fuzzy smudge that hadn’t been there last year—not fantastically bright, but bright enough to be unmistakable when one looked for it.

“What is it?” Ginny asked.

Hermione pointed to the horizon. “That’s Comet Hale-Bopp,” she said softly. “It’s going to be a big deal, I think. The muggle astronomers say it’ll be the brightest comet since 1976, visible all winter and well into spring. I was hoping to get the chance to observe it from the Astronomy Tower, but…I don’t know if that’ll happen now.”

Ginny shivered and looked at Hermione with wide eyes. “That’s a really bad omen,” she said. “Two comets two years in a row? Right when You-Know-Who is getting big?”

“Ah, superstition,” Hermione dismissed her. “Comets aren’t as predictable as planets, but they still follow arithmantically-defined paths that you can trace hundreds of years in advance. They’re not inscrutable apparitions. The muggles have known this one was coming for a year and a half. I don’t put much stock in astrology, no matter what the centaurs say.”

“I still don’t like it,” Ginny said. “Come on, let’s get this over with.”

“Alright. Kneel down there.”

“Ugh. Do I have to?”

“Yes, you do.” Hermione had already carved the runes she needed. She aligned the blocks around Ginny and cast the spells to activate them.

“Whoa. It feels tingly,” Ginny said.

“Yes, that’s the Unplottability Charm. Now, this will sting a little… _Tractiare. Tractiare. Tractiare,_ ” she chanted.

There was a loud _CRACK!_ and an “EEP!” from Ginny as she felt an electric shock go through her. The runes went dark.

“There, it’s finished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So about one third of the reviews on the last chapter suggested that Hermione might have faked her parents’ death, and yes, she did. Just so we’re clear, I have been planning that since way back in second year, so it was not a Deus ex machina or backing down at the last minute.
> 
> I was hoping to throw people off the scent by having Hermione show up crying at the Burrow, but I also made the description of the attack deliberately vague to stand out. I wasn’t really intending for people to think it was Narcissa who did it. Her possible vendetta was a last-minute addition and wasn’t even confirmed in-story. I also didn’t realise how much I set people up to believe the attack by killing off other major characters. It just goes to show how you can miss things by being too close to the story.
> 
> Lacrimosa: Latin for “weeping” or “lamentable” and one of the movements of the Requiem Mass.


	47. Sixth Year, Spring Term

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling owns Hermione Granger, and no one owns algebraic topology.

Come Sunday, Harry returned to Hogwarts with Ron and Ginny. There had been a lot of debate over whether it was safe for him to return to the school, but in the end, the decision was out of their hands. Harry had to go back. He was still underage, and as Professor Slughorn had done a runner after Dumbledore’s death, they didn’t have any certified tutors in Transfiguration for him, which he needed on the Auror track.

Hermione was not going back despite Slughorn’s absence. She was of age, and her own studies were now so far off the standard curriculum that it wasn’t worth the trouble. She was nearly doing self-study at this point, with Molly to help with Potions and Defence, Bill for Runes and Charms, and getting by on her own for Transfiguration (though Bill and Fleur were happy to help). Alchemy was cancelled.

Remus and Tonks had gone to a different safe-house together, which surprised her. She hadn’t thought they were that much of an item. And Sirius was at a different safe-house still, as far as she knew. It was strange having only five people at the Burrow (albeit with frequent visits from George and Fred). That would have been plenty for a normal house, but Hermione had never seen the place that empty before.

Hermione spent her days studying and researching, jumping from topic to topic, but always with an eye towards helping Harry and defeating Voldemort. She wasn’t really even thinking about her Arithmancy Mastery anymore, although she had several likely projects that would fit on the back burner. She suspected arithmantically breaking down the horcrux ritual would more than qualify, but she couldn’t exactly tell anyone about that. She was hesitant even to include Septima.

Inventing new curses and countercurses was another useful task for her, and she stocked up on reference material. She wasn’t hurting for money; she could sell a new jewelry piece every month or two and never have to work a normal job in her life. So she bought a bunch of new textbooks from the dental school’s bookstore, which was the only university store she knew to Apparate to. She grabbed books on neurology, psychology, pharmacology, surgery, and even, although magic didn’t play nice with radiation, radiology, as well as an ICD, a DSM, and a BNF, and besides this, if she saw mention of a curse she didn’t recognise in the newspaper or something, she’d make a note to reverse-engineer it or design an equivalent.

But while she was creating some truly horrific new curses, it wasn’t random; there was a method to her madness. After discussing all of her notes on horcruxes with Bill, they had decided that the best first step to finding a way to cure Harry would be to reverse-engineer the Killing Curse—something that had never been done arithmantically, as it dated back to the Middle Ages before most arithmancy techniques had been invented. If she could do that, it would give her valuable insight into the magic of life and death, and maybe, just maybe, she could find a way to block it, too.

Finding the horcruxes was another matter. Using discreet methods of communication, Hermione and Bill arranged to meet Harry at Hogwarts on Saturday so that they could investigate the Chamber of Secrets. They had reason to be cautious; they remembered what had happened in the shack. But they had to figure it out sooner or later. It was easy enough to find an excuse for Bill to come to the castle.

* * *

There were Aurors guarding the main entrances of Hogwarts, but there weren’t much in the way of patrols within the school, at least during daylight hours, and even if there were, Hermione and Harry both had maps they could use to avoid them, so there was little danger of their secret getting out. They mostly only had to deal with the Aurors at the door.

“Name and business?” one of the Aurors said.

“William Weasley, Cursebreaker,” Bill said. “Professor McGonagall wants me to look at the curse on the Defence Professorship.”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione added. “Private tutoring session with Professor Vector.”

The Auror checked them against some sort of list, scanned them with a Probity Probe, and waved them in.

Bill did go poking around to look for the source of the curse on the Defence Professorship. Professor McGonagall even escorted him down to look at the anchor stones, although those were so complex that it could take years to trace a well-hidden malicious addition. And that was if Voldemort had carved it into the anchor stones and not somewhere else, something that would have been difficult during his brief visit in 1957.

No, Hermione corrected herself, during his _known_ brief visit in 1957. It wasn’t hard to sneak into the grounds if no one was looking, and the anchor stones were accessible from the boathouse. For that matter, it wasn’t _that_ much more difficult to get into the castle proper without being seen. Voldemort could have done sometime after his visit to Dumbledore to curse the position, hide a horcrux, or any number of other nefarious things.

But Bill would look at the anchor stones, since parts of the castle had been in continuous use for Defence in particular since 1957, while Hermione visited Septima. She was momentarily surprised when Septima took one look at her and pulled her into a tight hug. “Oh, Hermione, I was so sorry to hear about your parents. I couldn’t believe how fast it all happened. How are you holding up?” she asked.

“Oh, that,” Hermione said with a small smile. She closed the door to Septima’s apartment and made sure it was locked. “There’s something you should know about that, but I need you to keep it a secret…I faked their deaths.”

Septima stared at her. “You did what?” she asked.

Hermione quickly explained about her plan, in less detail than she had to the Weasleys and especially skimming over the part about the cadavers. As her mentor and friend, Septima deserved to know, and she was amazed at the story.

“I’m surprised you actually convinced your parents to go all the way to Australia and leave you here,” she said. “Whenever I’ve seen them, they’ve come across as strong-willed as you are. How did you do it?”

“A lot of screaming and crying and dazzling them with magic,” Hermione said. “Plus Dumbledore leaving a specific task for me.”

“And they’re well-hidden, I take it? They must be if you’re trusting others with this knowledge.”

“Only my closest friends know, but yes. I’d be hard-pressed to find them myself without actually going to Australia.”

“Well, I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that. So what are you going to do this term? To be honest, I’m a little surprised you came back here at all. Are you still trying for your Mastery? Because I have to be forthright with you; that might not be possible for the duration.”

“I know, Septima. I’m not really going for my Mastery as such. I told you Dumbledore left me a job. I was hoping I could ask your help.”

“Always, Hermione. What is it?”

“Well, I’m not so sure you’ll like it. It’s a lot deeper into dark magic than a lot of people I know would be willing to go.”

“Dark magic?” she said worriedly. “What kind of job is this?”

“Reverse engineering the Killing Curse and trying to find a way to block it.”

Septima nearly choked on her tea. “Blocking the Killing Curse? _That_ _’s_ the job Dumbledore left for you.”

“Yes,” she lied. If they got that far, she’d tell her more later.

Septima shook her head: “Only you, Hermione. If anyone can, you can…I’ll help you. If you can do something that big for the war effort, it would be incredible. Although I admit I don’t have the faintest idea where to start.”

“I have a few ideas.” Hermione pulled out her carefully redacted notes on the Killing Curse from her larger body of work and pointed out the patterns she had seen. The meeting after that came down to a lot of talking with no real tangible progress, but most projects started like that. When she left, she felt like they had made a good start.

* * *

Coming back down from her meeting with Septima was when the real trouble started. There in a corridor on the fourth floor, a small crowd of people were facing off. Pansy Parkinson, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle like Malfoy always was, plus the other Slytherin boys, Nott and Zabini, stood across the hallway, blocking a pair of younger students as well as Hermione in their path. The other students were little Georgina Vector and a Ravenclaw in her year whom Hermione didn’t know. She didn’t like the look of this.

“Granger!” Parkinson snapped. “There you are! I heard a rumour you showed your face here again.”

Hermione drew her wand since there were already several pointed at her. “What do you want, Parkinson?” she groaned.

“You. Gone,” Parkinson snarled. “You don’t deserve to come back to Hogwarts with what you are—after what you did—”

“Are you talking about Malfoy?” Hermione interrupted. “Because that was Harry—”

“Using _your_ spell, Granger! On _your_ secret mission! He died because of you, too!”

“And Dumbledore died from Snape’s spell, and Harry nearly did, too,” she said. “It doesn’t matter who invented it. Malfoy did it.”

“Shut up! You aren’t worthy to walk these halls, mudblood.”

Georgina tensed, and the younger Ravenclaw boy gasped, to Hermione’s surprise. It was almost cute how sheltered he still was. “Yes, real mature, Parkinson,” Hermione said, rolling her eyes. She looked around at the boys. “Is this really worth the effort.”

“Worth the effort? My boyfriend is _dead!_ ”

 _“And my parents are dead!”_ she screamed.

“Eep!” squeaked Georgina.

Finally remembering to play the part of the grieving daughter, Hermione repeated, “My parents are dead, Parkinson. Dolohov may have cast the spells, but he was enabled by whiny bitches like you who think purity of blood matters and try to blame anyone else for her boyfriend being a murderer.”

_“Furnunculus!”_

_“Attrahe!”_

_ZZZIP!_

The crowd gasped. Parkinson’s Boil Hex sat there on the end of Hermione’s wand like a fly trapped in a spider’s web. Hermione thought quickly about her options and decided to make an impression. “Let’s get something straight, all of you,” she said. She drew her second wand from her other sleeve, raising some eyebrows. “People like you killed Dumbledore.” She used her second wand to rip the outer layer of magic off the hex. It started sparking. “People like you killed my parents.” She pulled one of the remaining magical fields away, flipped the rest of the spell over, and slotted it back into place. The Slytherins gasped as it began crackling with electricity. “People with bloody stupid ideologies like yours have caused unspeakable horrors in the muggle world over and over again until we’ve become sick of it.” She rotated one of the fields so the spell wouldn’t fly apart at the slightest provocation, creating a crude version of her own Taser Hex. “And now you’re trying to take it out on me—to ruin me. But you won’t.”

And with that, she whipped her arm around and flung the spell back at Parkinson. The Slytherin girl was too shocked to put up a shield and tried to dodge at the last second, but the spell was so unstable that it didn’t need a direct hit. (That could be actually very useful if she could control it, Hermione thought.) It exploded and zapped both Parkinson and Goyle as it flew between them, knocking them both to the ground.

 _“Whoa!”_ as voice came from behind her. Hermione half-turned and saw Harry and Bill hurrying up the corridor while the younger students looked up at her in awe.

“That was impressive,” Bill said.

“There you are, Hermione,” said Harry. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, just taking out the trash,” she said.

Parkinson gasped for breath as she pushed herself to her feet. “H-h-how?” she said.

“This is what happens when you persecute someone just for who they are, Parkinson. After a while, they stop putting up with it and fight back. So really, this is your fault, too.”

Parkinson snarled and whipped her wand back up: “You—you—!”

“What are you talking about, mudblood?” Zabini snapped, raising his own wand.

“I’m talking about the consequences of pushing someone too far,” she growled. “Of driving someone to extremes.” Suddenly, she tapped her wand to her necklace and said _“Revelio”_ —not her D.A. galleon necklace, but the other one she’d made as a fun Ancient Runes project. The five stored spells carved into it would only last for half a minute, but that was all she needed. The hardest part was getting them to respond to _Revelio_ rather than a normal activation command. That little bit of misdirection would make all the difference.

Suddenly, with glowing white skin and glowing red eyes, blowing hair and billowing robes, and finally, a voice-changing charm that made her voice sound deeper and echo ominously, she spoke:

_“In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!”_

The charms faded, but the impact didn’t. Nott and Zabini decided discretion was the better part of valour at once, and Parkinson followed after them without a word. Crabbe and Goyle watched stupidly as their allies abandoned them, took a quick look at each other, and ran for it too.

Hermione turned to see Bill and Harry staring at her with their mouths hanging open. Georgina and her Ravenclaw friend were pressed up against the wall in terror.

“Sorry, did I scare you?” she said.

“H-Hermione…h-h-how…?”

“Mere parlour tricks.” She smiled: “Muggles _do_ like their special effects.” She was pretty sure Georgina caught her meaning, but she also had a strong suspicion that the Ravenclaw boy—Lisa Turpin’s little brother, apparently—didn’t, and she had no doubt that the infamous Hogwarts rumour mill would have her cast as a new Dark Lady by supper. The smart people wouldn’t buy it. The really smart people might even guess what she’d done, but she was pretty sure she’d made an impression.

Hermione reassured the children and sent them on their way, then proceeded with an uncomfortable-looking Bill and Harry to Myrtle’s bathroom, checking their Maps to make sure no one was close enough to notice.

“Hermione?” Myrtle said, floating out of her stall. “Oh, hello. I didn’t know you were still here. What are _they_ doing here?” She pointed at the boys.

“We’re searching for cursed artifacts, Myrtle,” Hermione said. “We’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone. We need to find them to defeat Voldemort.”

“Who?”

“That man who killed you. We’re going to take him down for good.”

 _“Oh.”_ Myrtle looked touched. “Go ahead, then.”

Harry opened the entrance to the Chamber with Parseltongue, and Myrtle fled in fear to hide in her toilet. As the door opened, Hermione pulled her new Comet 260 out of her handbag. She’d finally got the second Extension Charm to work. She looked up and saw Harry and Bill staring at her again. “What?”

“You brought a broom?” Bill said.

“You _bought_ a broom?” Harry added.

“Something of an impulse purchase, I admit,” she said, “but you’ll never know when you need to make a quick escape.” They were still staring. “What? I didn’t fancy sliding down that shaft again. Didn’t you bring one?”

“I didn’t think of it,” Harry said sheepishly.

“I brought a coil of enchanted rope,” Bill said. “A broom’s not so good in such a tight space.”

Hermione blushed. And _just_ after she’d done her _Lord of the Rings_ routine. “In retrospect, that’s probably a better idea.” She put her broom away, and the three of them rappelled down the rope to the Chamber. She had to steel herself when she saw it in their wandlight. The place was as dark and disgusting as ever—worse actually, because there were now live rats breeding down there, skittering atop the pile of bones now that there was no basilisk to eat them. The place was fouled by half-eaten corpses and excrement, and all three of them started casting Scouring Charms everywhere before they touched the floor. The smell alone nearly made her vomit. The rats scattered as they touched down and cast light around the Chamber.

They worked slowly, with Bill in the lead and casting most of the spells, looking for dark magic—which was everywhere—but in the tight knot that accompanied a horcrux rather than the old dark wards that saturated the entire Chamber. Hermione and Harry knew enough detection spells to rule out most places and manners of hiding one, leaving Bill to focus on the most devious, so it didn’t take that long to search the whole antechamber. They found nothing, which wasn’t surprising. The hard part was searching around that old snake skin—unfortunately, one that was in too bad a shape to be useful for anything. Then, Harry opened the main Chamber.

The basilisk had been reduced to a skeleton—probably what those rats had been eating, given how many of them there were. The main Chamber hadn’t been fouled nearly as much, though. It was still cold and damp and held a musty smell that contained a lingering hint of rotting meat, but it was much better than the antechamber. As a skeleton, the basilisk was much less frightening and looked smaller than Hermione remembered—a little—although Bill warned them the fangs were still dangerous.

“It’s a shame it wasn’t preserved in better conditions,” he told them. “In an Egyptian tomb, the skin would’ve still been usable, and maybe some of the other parts. No one thought to salvage it at the time?”

Hermione shrugged, and Harry said, “Well, I was the only one who could get in here. And between people being petrified and dementors surrounding the school the next year, I guess no one did until it was too late.”

“Although…” Hermione mused as she looked around. “You’d think there’d be another way out. Otherwise, what did the basilisk eat?”

“I’d wager it lets out into the Lake,” Bill said. “You see that sometimes in Indian tombs—more often for nagas, but I’ve heard of it for basilisks, too. Based on where we are and the design of the Chamber, it’s the logical answer. If it was hibernating, it would’ve only had to come out once a year—during summer when the castle’s nearly empty. We would have noticed if it was hunting in the Forest, but in the Lake—”

“It would be harder to keep track of,” Hermione finished. “And the water would have diluted its death stare.”

“Yes, although we wouldn’t have known that before your studies.”

They scanned the Chamber as well, which took longer. There were a lot of nooks and crannies plus heavy enchantments laid on the statues. The basilisk skeleton was hard for even Bill to parse, but he eventually pronounced it as clean as a basilisk skeleton could be. There were other rooms attached to the Chamber proper. The largest was the basilisk’s sleeping chamber behind the huge statue of Slytherin. There were also hidden cupboards in the walls that held empty bookshelves and potions cabinets, but they had long since been looted, perhaps by Slytherin himself, or perhaps by one of his early heirs, who must have attended the school at some point, or even by Voldemort. They found no sign of any horcrux.

“Well, that’s it,” Bill said. “If there’s one at Hogwarts, it’s not here.”

“I still think he would’ve hidden one here,” Harry said.

“Well, it’s not in this Chamber. And it would have to be someplace Dumbledore wouldn’t have found it while he was looking for the Chamber.”

“And we don’t know where Dumbledore looked,” Hermione said.

“That’s not really the point. It has to be someplace You-Know-Who wouldn’t have _expected_ Dumbledore to look for the Chamber. And not a well-travelled area either, or anyone might have noticed. Even narrowing it down, we won’t be able to search the whole castle.”

“I’ll talk to George and Fred and try to map out the most likely areas,” Hermione said. “Hm…if we could find the one in that sea cave, I wonder if I could copy its signature to make the Mathemagician’s Map find any that are here.”

Bill’s eyebrows shot up. “I doubt it,” he said. “It would be dangerous, and it might be someplace that doesn’t show on your Map. I don’t fully understand what you did, but I’d guess you’d have more luck if your soul-detecting spell pans out.”

Hermione filed that in the back of her mind. She had quite a few ideas, but no good lead on which direction to go yet. She did have another thought, though. After some consideration, she crouched down next to the basilisk’s skull and, wearing dragonhide gloves, carefully removed a fang from its mouth.

“What are you doing?” said Bill.

“Well, think about it. We only have the Sword of Gryffindor right now to destroy horcruxes, and according to Dumbledore, Harry’s the only one who can wield it unless another Gryffindor calls it. We know a fang will work, so this will be more reliable.” She rummaged through her handbag. “Now, I _think_ I’ve got an Imperturbable box in here for carrying dangerous chemicals—ah, here it is.”

“Why would you need to carry dangerous chemicals?” asked Harry.

She looked him in the eye: “Do you really want to know?”

Harry took a step back. “Probably not.”

* * *

Hermione got stares on the way out of the castle. She heard whispers behind her back, but no one dared challenge her to her face, not even the children of Death Eaters. Good.

She met with George and Fred a couple times over the next few days to go over the Mathemagician’s Map in detail to rule out as many places as they could where Voldemort could _not_ have hidden a horcrux. Rooms that were in common use, rooms that had shifted in the last few years, and rooms where excess dark magic would have had detrimental effects, like broom cupboards and potions storage, were quickly ruled out. Molly and Arthur provided what help they could without being told why to remember what rooms had shifted since they were in school. It still left a lot of ground to cover.

It was the next Friday night when they got the message. It was late. Molly and Arthur were about to go to bed, and only Hermione was likely to stay up very late, when a shimmering lynx Patronus ghosted in through the window with the speed of a meteor to land on the carpet. Molly squeaked in fear as the lynx spoke in the voice of Kingsley Shaklebolt.

_“The Ministry has fallen. Scrimgeour is dead. Do not reply. You are being watched. Stay behind wards. Be ready to run.”_

The Patronus vanished to horrified silence.

Molly moaned. “Oh, Arthur! What do we do.”

“Exactly what he said, Mollywobbles. Sit tight and be ready to run.”

“But if we’re being watched—”

“Dad’s right, Mum,” Bill stopped her. “Snape said You-Know-Who wouldn’t take over overtly. He’ll go through a puppet. He has to keep up appearances. I’ll go check the wards.”

“And I will ‘elp,” Fleur added. “We will be ready for anything.”

“Scrimgeour is dead.” Hermione said absently as they went outside. “I thought we were trying to protect him.”

Arthur shook his head, still holding his wife. “An old battle-axe like Scrimgeour wouldn’t let the Ministry go without a fight.”

“But we need him. He’s the leader of the government. If he’s not there to retake command—”

“It would be no different if he’d been deposed or arrested,” Arthur said. “It might even be worse—strategically, that is. Easier to tarnish his legacy that way.”

“Propaganda can tarnish _any_ legacy, Arthur,” Hermione countered. “Who takes over if we take the Ministry back?”

“Probably Mad-Eye if we can convince him—temporary only, obviously, but he’ll be able to clean up. But we can’t think about that until we’re stronger. We have to focus on our immediate problems.”

“But the Order’s been working for a year and a half, now, and we’re worse off that we were before. How can we get stronger?”

“There will be people we can recruit,” Arthur said. “Others like Scrimgeour. Ministry employees and wizards on the street who weren’t willing to help when it ‘wasn’t that bad’. They won’t be the best, but they’ll make the difference.”

“Arthur,” Molly cried. “What about Percy?”

Hermione felt a sinking feeling. With the hours Percy kept, there was a good chance he was at the Ministry when it fell, and a falling out with his family probably wouldn’t protect him from being a ‘blood traitor’.

“I’m sorry, Molly, I don’t know,” he said. “There’s no safe way to contact him. If he’s being watched, we can’t risk a Patronus. I’ll have to find out when I go into work next.”

“Work?” Molly gasped. “Arthur, you can’t go back to that place!”

“I have to, Molly. Even in a war, we need the money. And if You-Know-Who has to keep up appearances, then so do we. They won’t go after me in the Ministry.”

Molly only cried harder. Hermione felt for her. Even with Dobby helping, she couldn’t think of a really safe and efficient way to get in contact with Percy undetected. Of course, she had her own family to worry about, and not just her blood family. “Harry needs to know,” she said. “Kingsley might not have messaged Hogwarts.”

“And Ron and Ginny and the Twins,” Molly said.

“Yes, and the D.A.,” Hermione agreed. “Okay, I can do this.” Counting characters in her head, she tapped out two messages. One, on the _Lord of the Rings_ ring on her left index finger read: _MINISTRY FALLEN—BEING WATCHED—BE CAREFUL._ That would go to the duplicate rings she made last year: Arthur, Molly, George, Fred, Sirius, and Remus, who probably already knew—and Cedric, Septima, and most importantly Harry, who probably didn’t. Since the rest of her friends at Hogwarts didn’t have rings, she made the executive decision to push Harry to call a meeting. On the D.A. galleon she wore around her neck, she tapped another message: _EMRGCY DA MTNG ASAP—WATCH 4 NEXT MSSGE_.

* * *

“That’s all Kingsley said,” Sirius told Harry over his enchanted mirror. “He was contacting all of us. We’re lucky he got a message through at all.”

“But what do we _do_ , Sirius?” Harry demanded.

“ _You_ stay put. You’re safe at Hogwarts, even without Dumbledore. You’re behind the strongest wards in Europe, and you have four Order members there. Trust them.”

“But what about you?”

“Remus and I will be fine. We’re good at hiding. We got through the last war just fine, after all. The only thing _you_ need to worry about is the Slytherin students. I know you can take them in a fight, but they might take you by surprise.”

“Yeah. I told you they tried to go after Hermione last— _ah!_ ” He hissed and looked down at his hand. Sirius would have reacted, but he felt a burning on his own hand. He’d nearly forgotten the ring Hermione had given him a year ago to send messages outside the usual Order channels.

“Hermione sent a message,” Harry said, but his face fell when he read it. “Ministry fallen, being watched, be careful. Yeah, tell me something I don’t know, Hermione— _ouch!_ ”

“What is it, Pup?” Sirius asked.

“And she just did,” he said. “The galleon necklace she made me—the one for the D.A. She sent another message…Emergency D.A. meeting ASAP. Watch for next message,” he read off. “But we didn’t call a…oh. _She_ _’s_ calling the meeting for me.”

“It sounds like she wants you to warn the others,” Sirius observed.

“Yeah, I get it. It’d be nice to get a heads-up first, though.” Of course, he thought, Hermione didn’t really have any truly secret one-to-one communication methods besides Dobby, and the elf wasn’t perfect at staying out of sight. Still, there was no reason not to, so he called the meeting.

* * *

About half of the D.A. showed up. Probably, most of them had been ignoring their galleons after the D.A. was _de facto_ disbanded with Umbridge’s ousting, but he guessed a lot of them started watching again after Dumbledore’s death. Things were more dangerous now, and they would want the reassurance of the group and Harry in particular.

They met in the Room of Requirement, being the only room in the castle where they could be assured of a private meeting. It was public knowledge now, sort of, but now that he knew more about it, he could specify that only D.A. members would be allowed in.

All the Gryffindors from their year came, and so did Ginny and the Creevey Brothers. They were missing quite a few who had graduated, though, and Harry noted with sadness that two of their number, Lee and Cho, had died. A handful showed up from the other houses: Luna, Padma, and Anthony from Ravenclaw; Susan, Hannah, and Justin from Hufflepuff. Even two Slytherins showed up: Georgina Vector and Astoria Greengrass.

“Thank Merlin Potter’s doing something,” Astroria said wearily.

“I didn’t know you were still watching the galleons,” Harry said.

“Are you kidding? _We_ never stopped watching,” she replied as she lay against a pile of cushions, her eyes closed. It wasn’t easy for her to climb all the way to the seventh floor. “We can read the writing on the wall. We need connections to other people who can help us. Daphne and Tracey have been watching, too, but they sent us alone so they could keep up appearances.”

Harry frowned. That phrase was being used a lot tonight, and he was concerned for the other two girls. “Will you all be safe enough in Slytherin?”

“We’ll have to be, won’t we?” she replied. “It’s not like there’s anyplace else we can go. It’s not as bad as you think, Potter. Parkinson puts on a good show, but they’re pretty disorganised without Malfoy—and scared of you because you killed him.” Harry flinched at that. “We’re mainly hoping we can count on the D.A. to come to our aid if something happens.”

Harry looked around at the D.A. They looked pretty disorganised, too. “Some of us, I think,” he said. “A lot of the others still don’t care for Slytherin that much. But if you actually need to get out…Hermione’s spent time living in here before.”

 _“Here?”_ Astoria said in disbelief.

“Yes, I know about it,” Georgina said. “She reset it to look like a bedroom and told it not to let anyone else in. It could work in a pinch.”

“Huh. Worth keeping in mind, I guess.”

Harry was relieved. He had a feeling the girls might need it in the future. Once he felt that everyone was there who would be coming, he started the meeting. It was somewhat underwhelming when it came down to it. He told them what he knew, which wasn’t much. He told them about the coup at the Ministry and that the new government would be a puppet for Voldemort. No, he didn’t know anything about who had been injured or killed. No, he _wouldn_ _’t_ explain how he got his information, but yes, it was trustworthy. Yes, they were safe at Hogwarts—probably safer than anywhere else, especially the muggle-borns. He repeated Sirius’s assertion that the biggest threat was the Slytherin students causing trouble.

Susan Bones recommended that they use the buddy system—go everywhere in twos and threes in case the Slytherins tried something. That was readily agreed to. Harry told them that Professors McGonagall, Hagrid, and Jones were definitely clean and safe to go to if they were in trouble. He made a mental note to tell Astoria and Georgina privately that Snape was also on that list. The Creevey Brothers wanted to start training in spells again—stuff that would be useful in a serious fight—but not everyone agreed there.

“We’ve actually got a good Defence teacher this year,” Anthony Goldstein pointed out.

“But that’s not reliable,” Colin said. “Things are getting dangerous. You never know what’ll happen. Dumbledore was killed halfway through the year. Plus the Defence teacher already changes every year, and most of them suck.”

“Let’s vote, then,” Ginny suggested. They did, and the motion carried easily. She shot Harry a smug look, but Harry wasn’t averse to it. He took a little time to put them through their paces, though he went easy on them since it was the first meeting since last year.

Dean Thomas was the one who suggested they start recruiting again. Harry was sceptical, both because they’d been outed and because half of them hadn’t even shown up tonight.

“They will when we get the word out about You-Know-Who,” Dean said. “Look, the D.A. isn’t exactly a secret anymore, but _they_ never got our member list and they don’t know how this room works…Actually, _I_ don’t know how it works, and I’m pretty sure Seamus didn’t either, so they probably didn’t get anything.”

“Well, you just…wait, you all don’t know?” Harry said in surprise.

Most of the group shook their heads. “We just know it’s a secret room that only you and Hermione knew how to get into,” said Padma. “You always had it set up already when we got here.”

“But…” He was really confused now. “Everyone who _does_ know how the Room works—did you tell anyone?”

The few who did shook their heads.

“Hermione didn’t want too many people knowing,” said Georgina Vector.

“I don’t think anyone else knew at all,” Neville said. “Ron was in charge after you got expelled, and he didn’t tell.”

“But didn’t we tell…?” He looked around uncertainly.

“I don’t think it was anyone but me and my brothers and Georgina,” Ginny said. “Why does it matter?”

“Because Draco Malfoy was practically living in this room all last term. How did he know how to get in?”

Silence. No one seemed to know. Most of them hadn’t even known that Malfoy was doing something suspicious, and Harry himself didn’t know what he’d been doing in the Room. True, he couldn’t rule out the people who weren’t there, but now that he thought about it, he didn’t think they _had_ told anyone else how the Room actually _worked_ —certainly not well enough to keep everyone else out when they tried to spy on him. So how…? “Never mind,” he said. He’d ask Hermione about it later. “So the group and the Room are actually more secret than I thought. Now, if we’re just practising spells, that doesn’t really matter, but if we’re keeping each other safe and helping people out if they’re in trouble—”

“And fighting back,” Colin piped up.

“ _Maybe_ fighting back,” he clarified. “But especially then—keeping things quiet is a good idea. So we’ll stick with the contract. I guess it’s still binding on things that aren’t public knowledge yet unless Hermione or I cancel it. Just _be careful_ about who you recruit. Slytherins aren’t the only ones to worry about. Remember, Peter Pettigrew was a Gryffindor.”

“Not to mention Seamus,” Dean pointed out sourly.

Ron quickly jumped in: “Seamus was a mistake. We let it slip to him before we figured we needed to keep it a secret.”

“So yeah,” Harry said. “Be careful who you recruit. And remember, they all need to sign before they can join.”

“Got it,” Ginny said. “Dumbledore’s Army: still recruiting.”

* * *

Saturday morning was tense at the Burrow. No one had got much sleep. Despite Arthur’s conviction that they wouldn’t be targeted directly, they had had people keep watch. But morning came without incident, and Molly started making breakfast as usual.

Hermione wearily pulled herself out of bed and trudged down to the kitchen. The problems that had looked difficult yesterday now looked near-insurmountable with the Ministry co-opted. It was even worse than last year when Fudge was being obstructionist and covering things up. _This_ Ministry would be actively hostile and wouldn’t hesitate to kill her if they could get away with it. With a shadow government like that in place, there weren’t many people she could trust, and there was that much more risk that someone would figure out what she was up to. She talked to Bill over breakfast about stepping things up: “I think we need to prioritise finding the items, Bill,” she said. “Once they’re in hand, I can focus on our other problems, but if Voldemort—”

_CRASH!_

There was a sound that reminded Hermione of the time Voldemort shattered all of the windows in the Ministry Atrium, but more felt than heard this time. It rattled the Burrow to its foundations and was followed by a shrill whistle like a teakettle. Molly screamed, and the rest of the Weasleys sprang into action.

“What? What is it?” Hermione cried.

“The wards just broke!” Bill yelled.

“What?”

“All of them?”

“What?! But how?”

_BOOM!_

The front door was blown off its hinges and crashed into the opposite wall in the living room. It was only luck that all five of them were in the kitchen at the time.

“Death Eaters!” Fleur yelled.

And indeed, two of them masked wizards were stomping in the front door. Arthur and Bill ran to the front to protect the women, but the women in the house were all fine duellists, too. Hermione was on the front line in seconds, both wands out and casting fast. In response, the Death Eaters were casting fire and explosive curses everywhere, trying to bring the house down around their ears, and with the wards broken, it might not be that hard. The Burrow was practically held up by magic as it was.

“We have to get out of here!” Bill ordered. “Reinforcements will be coming fast once they realise who they’ve got.”

“ _Accio_ handbag!” Hermione summoned her expanded handbag to herself amid many hexes and curses. She had everything she needed in there. She kept casting: _Zwinger! Extonio! Reducto! Fulmina! Ossificans! Diffindo! Dridristaub! Carnifex! Confringo! Photia Damaskou! Trigeminal Neuralgia! Rigor Mortis!_

She cast some of the curses verbally, while others she successfully cast nonverbally. The trouble was, in the heat of battle, she wasn’t sure which ones she had spoken aloud. The Death Eaters dodged and fought back hard, including with Killing Curses that they had to dodge or block with physical objects. Arthur and Bill pushed forward, however, manoeuvring the Death Eaters around, and she followed their lead. With more of them, she and the Weasleys had the advantage and could push them where they wanted—away from the Floo, even as the house was burning around them.

Luckily, after Kingsley’s warning, the Weasleys also had the essentials packed in expanded trunks ready to go. Hermione was vaguely aware of Arthur shouting “Molly, get the Floo!” as one of the Death Eaters shielded her Butchering Spell. She’d found _Carnifex_ in a book as a non-dark cutting spell strong enough to cleave through bone, but it didn’t serve as more than a distraction here.

Molly called out _“Prewett Manor!”_ at the fireplace while one of the Death Eaters staggered as Hermione’s Blinding Laser Curse hit him dead in the face, the twin infrared lasers lancing straight through his shield. The corneal burns would leave him blind as a bat for three days. But even through the noise of battle, they could hear the cracks of more Death Eaters Apparating in.

Molly and Fleur dove through the Floo, and Bill shoved Hermione in after them just as her last curse grazed a Death Eater’s arm. She felt herself tumbling through an extra-dimensional space before she fell out of the fireplace in an ornate sitting room. She look up to see a disapproving old lady berating Molly and Fleur for their messy entrance. Bill stumbled out a moment later, and Arthur finally followed just before the fire went out.

“Goodness gracious!” the old woman said. “What is all this mess?”

“I was trying to tell you, Auntie Muriel. We were attacked!” Molly sniped back. “The wards at the Burrow came down, and Death Eaters showed up and tried to burn the place!”

“The wards came down?” Aunt Muriel said incredulously. “What kind of slipshod wards did you have on that house. Couldn’t afford proper ones, could you? I always told you that boy would come to trouble—”

“That ‘boy’ is my husband, Auntie,” Molly cut her off.

“The problem wasn’t the wards,” Hermione cut in. “It’s much worse. The amount of power it would take to smash through them like that is astronomical. It would take a ley line convergence with…Bill, I haven’t studied much geomancy. What kind of power are we looking at?”

“It would take a stronger ley line convergence than the one in the town with us specifically within its area of influence—which is a short list. But I can save you the trouble. I’m pretty sure that was a Taboo Curse, and it would have to have come from the master control circle at the Ministry.”

“A Taboo Curse?” she said. “What’s that?”

“It’s a curse that detects when a certain word or name is said. It originated in Polynesia. Out there, it could cover a small island easily. I’ve never heard of it being used on an area as large as Britain, but if they have the Ministry, they can control the entire ley line network to do it.”

“I don’t understand,” Hermione said. “What does that have to do with the wards?”

“It detects the name being said _anywhere_ ,” Bill insisted. “Through any wards. If it’s fuelled by a powerful ley line convergence, it’ll just small through them to get the information.”

Hermione gasped: “ _Any_ wards?”

 _“Any,”_ he nodded. “It won’t break Fidelius because it’s ritual magic that deflects magic around it, and Unplottability runs on the national network too, but it’ll still give a general location for both of them, and it’ll shatter damn near anything else.”

“What about Hogwarts?” Molly said fearfully.

“Hogwarts is safe, Mum. It’s built on a stronger convergence than the control circle.”

“But what set off the Taboo—” Hermione said, and then she paled, and her heart started racing. “Oh God…oh God, oh God. I said—I said You-Know-Who’s name, didn’t I?”

Bill nodded sadly: “I’m sorry, Hermione. With the way You-Know-Who is about his name, that has to be what it was.”

Hermione slumped to the floor. This was too much. The Weasleys had welcomed her into their home, and she got it burnt to the ground. “I’m sorry,” she choked. “I’m so sorry.”

Arthur knelt down beside her. “Hermione—Hermione, it’s not your fault. The Death Eaters are the ones who did this.”

“I was the only one there who says his name, though.”

“And you were only doing what Dumbledore always said we should all do. If he’d got his way, the Taboo would have been useless.”

“Your house, though…”

“Listen, Hermione, all that stuff back there? It can be replaced. You can’t. We got everything that was valuable out of there thanks to Kingsley’s warning. It’s going to be okay.”

“Are you mad?” Muriel jumped in. “You’re telling me this foolish _girl_ doesn’t have the sense to not say You-Know-Who’s name?”

“Muriel, this is not the time—” Arthur said.

“Not the time?” Muriel shrieked. “Your house just got burnt down because of her—”

“It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know—”

“Get her out of here before she slips up again—”

“Bill didn’t even know until it happened—”

“But at least he has sense. Send the little hussy to her delinquent boyfriend—”

“Don’t talk about Hermione and George like that!” Molly shouted.

“I won’t have a threat like her in my house—”

_“SILENCIO!”_

Everyone stopped and turned to see Hermione standing and shakily pointing her wand at her own throat. No one spoke. Presently, she put it away, then rummaged through her handbag and pulled out a stack of index cards and a ballpoint pen. Calmly and silently, she wrote a message and passed it around the group.

 

_ There. _ _Now, let_ _’s discuss this like civil adults._

_Muriel_ _’s right. I need to break the habit. I’m worried about slipping up. Even if I went behind a Fidelius, there would be a risk. As Bill said, it would give away the general location._

_I_ _’m going to try to find a solution, if Bill will help me._

_I know enough nonverbal magic to get by for now._

 

The Weasleys looked back at her with wide eyes when they read her note. “Hermione…” Molly said. “You don’t need to silence yourself for us. We trust you.” She shot a glare at Muriel to keep her from contradicting her.

Hermione shook her head and started writing another message. This time, she paused in the middle to think about her wording. She finally settled on:

 

_Thank you, Molly, but I don_ _’t trust myself just now._

_It_ _’s a muggle trait to say what needs to be said, if that makes sense._ _~~We~~ _ _They would agree with Dumbledore that refusing to speak a name or refusing to speak an uncomfortable truth only makes things worse._

_I don_ _’t like the fact that the opposite can be true in the wizarding world, but I don’t have time to relearn it now. This is the best way._

 

“Well, that’s still very gracious of you, Hermione,” Bill said. “I’m not sure what kind of solution you think we can find, but I’ll help you if I can.”

Muriel voiced a grudging agreement.

Hermione nodded her thanks. Another thought struck her, and she quickly tapped out a message on her ring:

 

_TABOO ON YOUKNOWWHOS NAME—DO NOT SAY!_

 

As explanation, she wrote another note:

 

_I think Sirius, Remus, and Harry are the only other ones who normally say You-Know-Who_ _’s name._

_Maybe Ginny, but I don_ _’t think she says it much._

_Now, they_ _’ll be warned._

 

“That’s good,” Bill said. “I should have thought of that. I was setting up a cabin as an emergency retreat for Fleur and me, but Remus is the Secret Keeper. I’ll have to try to get more details to him. If he’s at more risk than we are, it could be a problem.”

“Hermione,” Arthur said, “if I may ask, what was that last spell you used back there? It sounded…unusual.”

Hermione made an exaggerated sighing motion to get her point across and explained:

 

_Rigor Mortis_

_It_ _’s not what you think._

_Well, it works by the same mechanism, but it doesn_ _’t kill the tissue._

_It binds the muscle fibres together so that the area where it strikes becomes as stiff as a corpse for a day or two._

_Honestly, it_ _’s not as powerful as my Ossifying Curse, but it’s easier to cast and doesn’t seem to have been thought of before._

_I built it from a hair-styling charm that never worked quite right._

 

“That’s…frankly a little disturbing, but I understand,” Arthur said.

“So what do we do now?” asked Fleur wearily. “We are safe for now, but eef ze Ministry ‘as fallen, what can we do from here?”

There was silence for a moment, and Arthur said, “We keep fighting, Fleur. Any way we can. Hermione seems to have a plan already.”

Hermione nodded and wrote a short message:

 

_Vive la R_ _ésistance._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carnifex: Credit to EssayofThoughts (see their work here and at AO3 and Tumblr) for this idea.
> 
> Photia Damaskou: Greek for “light of Damascus”.
> 
> Rigor Mortis: from the medical term; Latin for “stiffness of death”.


	48. Chapter 48

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: No one expects JK Rowling! …Actually, everyone does. Everyone expects JK Rowling. But I am not JK Rowling. Ha!

Hermione laboured under her self-imposed silence with mixed results. She felt like she was fading into the background in the boisterous Weasley-Prewett household, although she was so busy with her various projects that that might have happened anyway. Old Muriel was just as…outspoken as the rest of them. She’d been largely pacified by Hermione’s gesture, but she also seemed to regard her silence as itself being somewhat uncouth. You just couldn’t win with that woman.

Oddly enough, Muriel _did_ seem to like Crookshanks. Hermione’s cat had an uncanny sense for danger, as he had darted through the Floo between everyone’s legs when his owner was too worried about not getting killed by Death Eaters to think about him. She’d been immensely relieved and more than a little disturbed when she put the pieces together, and she was worried she wouldn’t be able to take care of him much longer if the war continued to heat up. But whatever else she was, Muriel seemed to be a refined cat lady, so perhaps Hermione could leave him with her.

Fred and George came at once when they heard what happened. They made a few obligatory jokes at Hermione’s expense, but they recognised the gravity of the situation and went easy on her. They were devastated by the loss of their home, even though they’d moved most of their things out to their flat. When Molly and Arthur explained what happened, Hermione started to write out, _I_ _’m so sorry—_

George grabbed her away from her cards and held her close to him. “Hermione, this isn’t your fault,” he said. “You were just being the brave one who actually said You-Know-Who’s name. Everyone else was scared of it even without him doing this last time, but no one expected them to actually do something about it.”

Hermione suddenly started giggling silently.

“Alright, what’s so funny,” George said when he felt the vibrations.

Hermione scribbled out a message, and he read it aloud.

 _“No one expects the Spanish Inquisition…?_ Huh?”

Hermione mimed laughing even harder at his delivery, even though it honestly wasn’t a very good joke. George kissed her to shut her up.

“Fred, do you know what’s happening out there?” Molly asked. “Are we wanted wizards or anything?”

“We haven’t heard anything yet, but it hasn’t been very long,” said Fred.

“I still think the Ministry will have to go on functioning normally,” Arthur said.

“I don’t want you going out until we know it’s safe, Arthur,” Molly insisted. “Merlin, I don’t know what we’ll do if we have to go completely into hiding.”

“We can find out, Mum,” Fred said.

“Yeah, we’ll get answers,” George agreed.

“Boys, you might not be safe out there either,” she said.

“No one came for us this morning, though,” George told her.

“That won’t make much difference, George. Your family name will cause you enough trouble as it is if You-Know-Who’s taken over.”

Hermione rapped her fist on the table to get everyone’s attention, and she handed out another card.

 

_The Death Eaters will know they weren_ _’t at the Burrow this morning and weren’t involved in that._

_They_ _’ll be better off than the rest of us._

_Just be careful._

_ Or else. _

* * *

Fred and George walked down Diagon Alley cautiously, but openly. The street was nearly empty, with most witches and wizards staying in, fearful from the news of Scrimgeour’s death and what might follow. But the _official_ presence was unchanged. Aurors still patrolled the Alley, and they were even the same Aurors—no one they knew or suspected of being a Death Eater. Of course, that didn’t rule out the Imperius Curse, but it looked like they weren’t changing their patrol patterns any.

They also knew they wouldn’t get much information from them. The rank and file either wouldn’t know what was really going on at the top or would be Imperiused. It would be almost impossible to find someone who could say authoritatively whether someone would be lying in wait at the Ministry to arrest their father, or if the Death Eaters were planning a raid on the joke shop.

Luckily, Fred and George knew someone placed high enough to know, and more importantly, they knew where he lived.

Percy had just come up to his apartment and unlocked the door when he heard a pair of voices behind him.

“Hello—”

“—brother.”

Before he knew it, Percy was tied to a chair and wandless in his own apartment with George shining his wand in his face. “What in Merlin’s name are you doing?” he demanded.

“Just paying a friendly visit to our big brother,” Fred answered.

“Asking him to come to dinner at Aunt Muriel’s,” George added.

“And that’s _all_ we’re doing if you know what’s good for you—”

“—and us.”

“ _What_ is all this about—and why are you shining that light in my face?” Percy demanded.

“I dunno,” said George, pulling the wandlight back. “Hermione said this is something muggles do.”

“But seriously, Perce, we want you to come back,” Fred said. “Mum and Dad are worried. We’re worried, too, comes down to it.”

Percy sighed in his usual put-upon way: “Look, I’m glad to hear you’re alright. I was worried about you when I heard the Burrow accidentally burnt down. Everyone is alright, right?”

“Yes, but— _accidentally_?” George said. “Where did you hear that?”

“That’s what the Aurors said.”

The Twins groaned. “They _would_ say that,” they said in unison.

“I know it sounds suspicious, but that’s the only official word I’ve heard. What happened?”

“What happened?” Fred exploded. “Bloody _Death Eaters!_ That’s what happened!”

Percy flinched a little and spoke a bit shakily: “Ah. So you two didn’t blow it up, then?” The Twins snarled, but he went on. “How did they get in, though? Dad’s been so paranoid, I figured the wards would be in top shape.”

“Paranoid?!”

“You’d know if you actually came home,” George snapped. “Didn’t you hear _anything_? You were _there_ when the Ministry fell, weren’t you?”

“I’m afraid I know nothing about any supposed ‘fall’ of the Ministry,” Percy said in such a rehearsed and stilted way that even coming from him it was obvious.

Fred’s and George’s eyes narrowed. “You know something, don’t you?” said George.

“I’m sorry. I cannot confirm or deny classified Ministry information.”

“Did you know about the Taboo Curse?” Fred demanded.

Percy’s stilted tone vanished, replaced by genuine curiosity: “What’s a Taboo Curse?”

“If you say You-Know-Who’s name, he knows where you are,” Fred answered. “ _And_ it breaks through wards.”

Percy paled: “ _That_ _’s_ how they got in? One of you tripped it?”

“ _Hermione_ tripped it,” growled George, to his further surprise.

“Hermione?”

“You don’t know anything, do you?” said Fred. “Did you even know she was staying with us? That her parents were dead?”

“She always said his name, so she’s silenced herself so she won’t slip up,” her boyfriend said quietly. “She’s hating herself for tripping the curse right now—that her being brave backfired like that—and now _we_ have to be the ones to put it all back in order. So, all we want to know is what’s going on at the Ministry.”

Percy rolled his eyes: “I’m sorry. I cannot confirm or deny classified Ministry information.”

“Don’t be stupid!” Fred said. “We know half of it already: Thicknesse is Imperiused, the Death Eaters have infiltrated it top to bottom, and You-Know-Who is pulling the strings behind the scenes.”

“You-Know-Who is no threat to the Ministry,” he said in that same rehearsed tone. “The Ministry is strong enough to stand up to all enemies.”

“Argh! Damn it! All we want to know is if the Aurors are going to be there to arrest Dad if he goes into work on Monday.”

Percy thought for just a moment, seeming to choose his words. “I’ve been able to come and go as I please since Scrimgeour’s death without any trouble,” he said.

The Twins looked at each other. “I didn’t hear a ‘no’ there. Did you, brother?” George said.

“No, I did not, brother.”

“Because I know how to keep my head down,” Percy growled. “Pureblood Ministry workers have nothing to fear so long as they are not openly working against the Ministry.”

“Only purebloods?” George said.

“That is what’s relevant to this conversation.”

“What about non-purebloods?” he repeated, thinking of Hermione.

“That is _not_ relevant to this conversation.”

And that got the message through loud and clear. “Thank you, Percy,” George said after a minute.

“Don’t mention it,” Percy said. He meant it literally. “Oh, but there is one thing.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m pretty sure they’re planning on eliminating Dad’s position.”

The Twin’s eyes widened. “The Counterfeit Spell Office?” Fred said.

“The Office for the Detection and Confiscation of…Yes, the Counterfeit Spell Office.”

“And bump him back to Misuse of Muggle Artifacts.”

Percy shook his head: “I think they’re going to bump him down to Obliviator.”

That was a bad sign, even if he wasn’t going to be arrested. Their father had always been undervalued by the Ministry, in their opinion, and Obliviators didn’t get paid very well, not least because any idiot could Obliviate a muggle.

“Alright, then,” said Fred. “Are you coming home, Perce?”

Percy lowered his gaze: “I’m sorry for the rift I’ve caused in our family, but it’s probably best for everyone involved if I stay away. As the Minister’s personal assistant, I can’t afford any serious entanglements.”

That message came through clear enough, too, but they didn’t much like it.

* * *

With people she couldn’t meet face to face, Hermione exchanged letters through Dobby while she was in seclusion. She did send one letter full of nonsense to Harry by owl just for misdirection purposes. Ron and Ginny assured her they didn’t blame her for their house in their letters, and they said they were more worried about Harry’s situation. He had to unlearn saying You-Know-Who’s name more than anybody. Even though he was safe in Hogwarts, it was a bad position to be in.

Bill and Fleur were getting by, but it was difficult. Bill took several days to track down Remus and make sure he was safe, and the two of them started talking about moving into their cabin, which meant they had to endure Muriel’s constant sniping about being “improper”. Charlie was too far out to reply to letters quickly, and Percy was still nowhere to be found—or rather, he was exactly where he was before: a personal assistant to Thicknesse and still not acknowledging his family. Even though George and Fred thought he wasn’t quite as detached from all of them as they thought, she could tell it stung Arthur and Molly badly.

As Percy warned, Arthur was demoted. He wasn’t officially bumped down to Obliviator, but his old office, Misuse of Muggle Artifacts, was moved to the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, and his duties were reduced to a glorified Obliviator, since most of the muggle-protection laws were quietly being repealed, which in many ways was an even worse sign.

Hermione spent her days surrounded by parchment covered in runes and equations, jumping around from topic to topic whilst trying to solve even one of her problems. She tried to get Bill’s help with them, but he was busy, and it was frustrating for her to communicate solely through writing even when he was there. When he was away, she muddled through, getting advice from Fleur and the Twins when they could help.

Several days later, Bill and Fleur made an announcement at the family dinner.

“Bill and I ‘ave been talking,” Fleur said, “and we ‘ave decided to move up ze wedding.”

“Move up the wedding?” Molly said in surprise. “Why? We’ve already planned…”

Bill finished the thought for her: “We planned to have it at the Burrow. Even if it were safe to go back and rebuild, that would be a huge complication. And we won’t really be able to invite more than close family under the circumstances.”

“I suppose not,” Molly said glumly. “When did you want to move it to?”

“Ze first of February,” Fleur said.

“A week and a half?” she said in surprise. “I didn’t know you were practically eloping.”

“It’s not eloping if the family’s there, Mum,” Bill said, rolling his eyes. “That should give enough time to get Fleur’s parents and sister in and out of the country safely.”

Hermione started writing a note.

“And if we must move into Bill’s cabin soon, we zought we should be proper,” Fleur pointed out.

“That’s very considerate of you,” Arthur said. “I’m sure we can set up something small by then.”

“It’s a better date for a wedding anyway,” Muriel interrupted. “Imbolc instead of Lammas—a time for new beginnings.”

“We don’t celebrate either of those, Auntie Muriel,” Molly groaned.

Hermione tapped her pen on the table to get their attention.

 

_Do we know if Fleur and her family are targets?_

_Do we need to plan an operation to get them in and out?_

 

“By association, certainly,” Bill said, “but You-Know-Who _does_ seem to be keeping up appearances of a properly-functioning Ministry. We’ll want to take some precautions, but if we keep it quiet, I wouldn’t expect much trouble.”

“For getting them in and out of the country, though?” Molly said. “It’s probably a bad idea to apply for an International Portkey at the Ministry. They’d have to come on a muggle boat.”

 

 _Actually, there_ _’s a train, now_.

 

“No, not the Magical Orient Express, dear. They’ll be watching that, too.”

 

_There_ _’s a Magical Orient Express?_

_I was talking about the Channel Tunnel._

 

“What’s the Channel Tunnel?”

Wizards could really be frustrating in how they didn’t keep up with modern technology. It took a few minutes for Hermione to convince Bill and Fleur that the Channel Tunnel was a feasible and preferable way to get Fleur’s family in and out of Britain under the Ministry’s proverbial radar (if wizards even knew what radar _was_ ). But it took her half the evening and a lot of diagrams to field all of Arthur’s questions about how the muggles had built the thing whilst fending off Muriel’s stalwart denials that it was even possible. But at least the matter was settled, and the wedding date was set.

* * *

Hermione had not been prepared to be the Maid of Honour.

Perhaps it should have been obvious, but she hadn’t made the connection until Fleur asked her that she was Fleur’s closest female friend who could make it. There _was_ Gabrielle, but she was only ten, and Hermione offered to sneak Harry, Ron, and Ginny out of Hogwarts to join in, but Molly vetoed that idea. They probably wouldn’t miss much, though, since Molly also insisted they have a proper public ceremony once the war was over.

Hermione didn’t particularly want the job, mainly because she didn’t really know what being the Maid of Honour entailed, and because she wasn’t sure a silent Maid of Honour was such a good idea, but Fleur insisted, and so she was roped into that as well as being the videographer. The videography job was easy, though. She would just set up her Omnioculars to record the ceremony and have the Creevey Brothers develop the pictures later. It was a job that was practically unknown in the wizarding world, but not a hard one for a simple case. She got the full Maid of Honour treatment, though, including the dress, makeup, and a hairstyle that would take her ages to undo even with magic.

Charlie was flying in from Romania to be Best Man. Hermione mentioned the Channel Tunnel to him in a letter, but he said he had his own way of getting around. She really hoped he didn’t mean riding a dragon.

Percy didn’t come. She knew that hurt Bill and hurt Molly even more. She had half a mind to go out with the Twins and drag him back there, but with the way things were going at the Ministry, that wouldn’t be very safe.

Remus and Tonks were the only other people to come, and that was only because Remus was their Secret-Keeper. To be brutally honest, the two of them and Hermione were the only ones who were really big enough targets to warrant such secrecy, although a wedding would be a tempting target regardless. They wound up going through a complicated series of Floos and Apparitions to gather the whole wedding party together in a little clearing outside Hogsmeade. The officiant was the same little old vicar who had officiated Dumbledore’s funeral, so it was good to know he could apparently be trusted. The ceremony was fast, but was standard fare allowing for the lack of music, and Fleur looked radiant and happy in her dress, so it wasn’t the worst wedding she’d ever been to (although that wasn’t hard; it would be hard to top Uncle Jack’s second wedding).

The “reception” dinner was, after much deliberation, held at Prewett Manor, with the understanding that the Delacours wouldn’t reveal anything about the place. It was really just a large family dinner, but it served, and they got to exchange gifts and eat cake and everything. Since Hermione’s gift required a bit of explanation, and she couldn’t speak, she opened it for the happy couple personally, revealing two gold rings—but not for ring fingers. She held up her own hand with her ring on her left forefinger and handed them a note:

 

_My gift to both of you._

_And I probably should have done this sooner._

_Two warning rings with Protean Charms._

_The same as Arthur, Molly, and the Twins have._

_You will be able to call for help._

_And I will be able to pass messages to you and others we trust._

_“Merci beaucoup, ‘Ermione,”_ Fleur replied and embraced her.

“Yes, thank you,” Bill said. “I’d hardly even thought of that. We have Patronus messages for when we need to talk to someone fast, of course, but I’ve seen what you did with the rings, and they have some real advantages.”

Hermione nodded and replied:

 

_A Patronus message is conspicuous._

_You never know if it will be safe on the receiver_ _’s end._

_The Protean Charm is much subtler._

 

“That’s right,” he agreed, “and I probably should have thought of this myself now that we’re splitting up.”

Hermione nodded again. She had made six new rings for her little network, to be given to people she personally trusted, outside the normal Order channels. After all, the Order had been betrayed before, and Snape had to report something to You-Know-Who as it was. She’d originally made them because she hadn’t trusted the Order itself—not after Dumbledore had sacrificed Sturgis Podmore to the dementors to keep his secrets. She had wanted a way to send messages that didn’t go through him, but even now that he was gone, it was still good practice. In this case, Bill, Fleur, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna would be added to the nine she could already send messages to. She’d had to briefly remove the Silencing Charm from herself to make them, but it was worth it.

Unfortunately, sending messages was still one-to-many and many-to-one, so it still wasn’t the optimal level of secrecy in a resistance movement. She found herself re-reading _The Moon is a Harsh Mistress_ and wondering if there was a way to implement Heinlein’s tetrahedral cellular resistance structure in the wizarding world. It occurred to her that putting two bands of characters on the rings with two Protean Charms would improve them, allowing them to send separate messages to just a few upstream and downstream, but then, she would have to remake all the rings, and many more for new recruits. And did it even make sense when the wizarding world was so small that everybody knew everybody else? And then there was the problem of the rings themselves being noticeable if too many people wore them. Heinlein’s resistance relied on having no written records or, failing that, unbreakable encryption. Could she spell them invisible, perhaps?

Well, something to think about another time. She had enough on her plate as it was. At least she had a way to contact Bill remotely, now, and that was what she most needed.

* * *

It was a difficult few more days before Hermione finally drew up a method that would solve the problem of the Taboo curse. A large part of the problem was that when she realised what it required, she needed to think up all the ways it could be used against her and guard against them. It still wasn’t as good as she wanted, but it would work, and she didn’t think she would be able to improve it very much. She asked Bill over and showed him her figures, and he agreed.

“Well, it’ll work,” he said. “It’ll be dangerous, but it’ll work.”

 

_I_ _’ll need help._

_We_ _’ll have to fight before I’m done._

 

“True,” Bill said. “We’ll need to ask the others—as many as will come. I don’t think getting the numbers we need will be _that_ hard. Most of the Order would do it for Harry, but…how many times will we need to do this?”

 

_Five at most._

_Hopefully not that many._

 

“Five is at least two more than I’m comfortable with, though. If you can cut it down…” She shrugged. “Come on, let’s tell Mum and Dad,” he said with a sigh.

Hermione and Bill gathered the family, including George and Fred, and the seven of them sat around Muriel’s dining room while Hermione explained what she’d found:

 

_I found a way to get around the Taboo Curse._

_To stop myself from saying You-Know-Who_ _’s name._

_I_ _’ll have to find a rune stone and do a ritual._

 

“A ritual?” Molly said. “Rituals are dangerous, Hermione.”

 

_I know, but I know how they work._

_You can analyse them with Arithmancy, just like all magic._

_Sometimes it_ _’s just a little more difficult._

_Bill said my numbers work out._

 

Molly gave her eldest son a very sharp look when she read that. “Bill, Hermione says you’re behind her on her plan. Is that true?”

“Her numbers _do_ work out, Mum,” he said carefully. “There are some definite issues, and it won’t exactly be safe, but I think it’s the least bad option for her if she’s really that worried about slipping up and saying the name. And I think Harry will definitely need it.”

“I see,” Molly said. “Alright, Hermione, just how does this ritual of yours work?”

 

_It_ _’s based on Professor Snape’s Langlock curse._

_It will stick my tongue to the roof of my mouth anytime I try to say the Name._

_It reverses the Taboo so the signal will bounce back to me Untraceably and keeps me from speaking instead of tripping it._

“But what about the sacrifice?” she asked. “It has one, doesn’t it?”

 

_This ritual works by balance._

_In order to block You-Know-Who_ _’s name, I have to sacrifice another name._

_One with positive associations._

_I chose my mother_ _’s name._

_It_ _’s not permanent; it will only last until I undo the ritual._

_~~It~~ _ _~~’s like a particle-antiparticle pair~~ _

_Never mind. The point is, it doesn_ _’t require a traditional sacrifice because it has two opposing effects._

_That_ _’s why it took so long to calculate._

_Anyway, I_ _’ll still be able to call her Mum or Mother until then, so it won’t do any harm._

 

Hermione didn’t mention that the ritual also required two drops of blood to attune the rune stone to her magic—not something you wanted to do every other week, but not a serious consideration for a one-off.

Molly frowned as she read the note and passed it around. She almost stopped to voice her objection halfway through, but she waited to finish it. The others read it and looked similarly uncomfortable.

“That’s…a pretty drastic step,” Arthur said with a frown. “But I suppose it’s your right, and if it’s not permanent, it won’t be that bad.”

 

_Thank you, Arthur._

_But there_ _’s a catch._

 

“What’s that?”

 

_I have to actually speak You-Know-Who_ _’s name to do the ritual._

 

“Oh,” he said. Molly gasped, and George and Fred looked very worried.

“But that’ll bring the Death Eaters down on us again,” George pointed out.

“Yes, but we’ll know they’re coming,” Bill pointed out. “And from what we’ve seen, they’re going in pairs. We’ll need to be ready when the Death Eaters show up, but we can handle them with enough of us.”

“Say, wouldn’t that be a good way to catch Death Eaters?” Fred suggested.

“Yeah, set up an ambush and say You-Know-Who’s name to call them?” George added.

“I doubt it,” Bill said. “I mean yes, for the ritual, we’ll pretty much have to, but they’ll catch on pretty quick and change tactics. As it is, I’m worried what’ll happen if we have to do it too many times—Hermione, Harry, Sirius, and Remus, and I’m hoping Ginny doesn’t need it. We’ll need to be ready for them to pull something tricky. That’s why we need more people.”

“Well, I’m sure Sirius and Remus will be on board—maybe others,” Arthur said. “I don’t think we’ll have trouble getting enough people if we need them. I’m more worried if You-Know-Who figures out you’ve worked out a way around the Taboo…”

 

_Can he modify it in a way he can use to catch us again?_

 

Bill thought for a minute: “Not really. The spell can’t use a word that’s too common, or it would be useless—and it would probably draw too much power at that scale. He could set it to his birth name, maybe. Not many of us use that, either.”

Hermione considered that. It was plausible, but she was sceptical for a different reason.

 

_Does the Taboo apply to muggles, too?_

 

“Yes—You’re not thinking of broadcasting it on muggle radio, are you. That would only get a lot of innocent people killed and risk the Statute of Secrecy.”

Hermione shook her head. She _had_ briefly thought of that, but rejected it on the same grounds.

 

_No, but that means You-Know-Who won_ _’t use his birth name for the same reason._

_“Hello, Tom. Riddle me this?”_

_Too common._

 

“Hmm, I see your point. But if he catches on, he certainly won’t let you use the same rune stone twice, and he might put something in place to detect that kind of tampering. He’ll definitely bring more resources to bear when he figures it out, which knowing him could be after the first time. That’s why I asked if you could cut it down.”

Hermione bit her lip and tapped her pen on the table in thought, thinking of any way she could streamline the process. She got an idea:

 

_I_ _’ll need to do the ritual twice._

_Once for me and once for Sirius and Remus together._

_I won_ _’t be able to do all three of us at once._

_We can do them back to back if you know two rune stones we can Apparate to._

_With Harry at Hogwarts, he can wait until summer, and it won_ _’t look related._

_Ginny can do it with him if she needs to._

 

“Twice back to back?” Bill said. “ _That_ I think we can pull off. What do you think, Dad?”

“Hmm, it’s still dangerous,” Arthur said. “It’ll be tricky, but I think you’re right, Bill. It’s the least bad option…And I think we should do it right away as soon as we can round up the people.”

Molly pressed her lips into a thin line as she surveyed the table. “Well, I don’t much like it,” she said, “but you’ve already sacrificed so much, Hermione—going around silenced for nearly a month. The least we can do is help you get around this problem, and it’ll be safer that way anyway. So…let’s see what we can do.”

 

_Thank you, Molly._

* * *

The Weasleys gathered Remus, Tonks, and Sirius to join the seven of them for the rituals. They considered waiting for Kingsley and Moody, but they hadn’t been reliable to get hold of them lately. Even Molly came to help protect them. Most of her family tried to stop her, but she said if three of her sons were going to be out here fighting, then she would be, too. And, she reminded them, she _had_ once been a qualified Defence tutor.

Bill and Fleur escorted the others to and from a remote rune stone they knew about via Side-Along Apparition until all ten of them were at the site. For her own part, Hermione could do the ritual herself, with the other nine to defend her from the two Death Eaters they expected to show up. The next round, when there would be only seven defenders, would be harder.

Hermione stood over the rune stone. Bill had led them to one along a major ley line that ran from Sunderland to Hull. It was larger and older than the one near Hogsmeade, being of Roman origin: a column nearly as tall as she was inscribed with Latin runes, with Norse additions and modifications made later.

It would have been easier if she could carve some new runes into the milestone. She could have done it without the blood that way, but she couldn’t leave any identifiable marks. Instead, she pulled a smaller rune stone from her robes—one she had carved herself. It was about the size of a CD and just under an inch thick, and she had already attuned it with a drop of blood. She placed it on top of the column, then, making a pinprick with her  black stiletto, she placed a drop of blood on one of the key runes on the milestone and spoke for the first time in days, _“Ligate Scripta.”_

There was a flash of light, and the tiny bloodstain was absorbed into the rock. Currents of power, just barely visible, flowed from her rune stone down to multiple points on the milestone, and also around her wrist, linking the three together. She spoke again:

_“Prohibeo nomen Emma Granger adversus nomine illicito et tapu Voldemort.”_

Within seconds, there was a dual pop and a flurry of shouts and spellfire, but all fell quiet in seconds. Hermione looked around, not speaking. Two Death Eaters were unconscious on the ground. Everyone else looked fine.

“We’ve got it covered, Hermione,” Bill said. “Just finish the ritual.”

She nodded and spoke again: _“Langlock. Pone custodiam ori meo et ostium circumstantiae labiis meis.”_

The current of power connected to her wrist pulsed with light, and she felt a tingle on her tongue, indicating the binding had taken. _“Exsolvite,”_ she finished, and the currents released. She turned back to the group.

“So, did it work?” asked Fred.

“I’ll try it,” she said. “Be ready…Vol- _chk_ …Y-Yes, it worked. Phew. Oh, it feels _so good_ to be able to talk freely again. I could sing!”

“You never really had to silence yourself, Hermione,” Arthur said.

“I know, but…call me paranoid, but I didn’t want to take the chance,” she said.

“Well, it’s good to finally have you back,” George said and kissed her.

“Thanks, George.” She looked down at the unconscious wizards. “What about the Death Eaters?”

“I vote we kill ‘em,” Sirius said.

“Padfoot, we’re not going to kill two stunned prisoners,” Remus chastised him.

“Why not? We know Azkaban won’t hold them.”

“Because we want to be _better_ than them.”

“He’s right, Sirius,” Bill said. “I don’t want to cross that line.”

“I don’t know,” Tonks cut in. “I don’t like it either, but we’ve got to do _something_ with them. If we just let them go, we’ll never win anything.”

Bill sighed: “Look, if we had someplace set up to hold them, it would be different, but right now, we can barely keep ourselves safe. We need to move fast and avoid arousing suspicion. This isn’t a capture operation. We can talk about what to do with captured Death Eaters later, but these two, let’s just Obliviate them and drop them a couple miles away.

“Now wait a minute,” Fred cut in. “We can do better than that. Let’s tie ‘em up and drop them in the Ministry Atrium.”

George, Hermione, and Arthur laughed a little, but Remus was thoughtful. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea,” he said. “At least that way, the Ministry will have to make a show of sending them to Azkaban, and there are still a few loyal Aurors who might be able to pull off something better than we can think of under the Death Eaters’ noses.”

“If we hurry, we can tie them _and_ the next pair up and drop them down the visitor’s lift,” Sirius suggested.

“Yeah,” Tonks agreed, “and take their wands and strip them to their pants so everyone can see their Dark Marks.”

That was…a little more drastic than Hermione was expecting, but most of the group quickly agreed to it. Still, Bill was right. If this was a real war, they would either have to start cursing to kill or find a reliable way of holding prisoners. Neither particularly appealed to her, and it would be one more problem for her to work on. Great.

The second site was far to the south, on a ley line that ran between Portsmouth and Ramsgate. They took the now-restrained Death Eaters with them as part of a string of Apparitions that left the group tired and needing a breather afterwards.

“I really need to learn Side-Along Apparition,” Hermione said. “I need to be more than dead weight for something like this. How long does it take to learn it?”

“For _you?_ Probably an afternoon,” said George with a grin. “Normally a few weeks. It’s not that hard once you’ve learnt regular Apparition.”

“Can you help me with it?”

“I thought you’d never ask, Hermione. But lets take care of this stuff first.”

The second ritual went much the same as the first. It required a slightly different rune stone, and she had to divide up the lines between herself and Remus and Sirius, but it worked perfectly. The part she was most worried about, the Death Eaters, actually didn’t cause much trouble. Fortunately, two people saying You-Know-Who’s name in the same time and place still only merited a response of two Death Eaters, although they did come out cursing, and the Weasleys had a job of holding them off until the ritual was done. Hermione finished it as fast as she could so the three of them could join the fray, and they soon put them down with no serious injuries.

“Whew, that was tense,” Hermione said. “I see what you meant about not repeating it, Bill. At least we won’t have to deal with that again until Harry’s back in the summer.”

“Yep,” Sirius agreed. “Now, let’s get rid of these idiots.”

Within an hour, four half-naked, hogtied, and Obliviated Death Eaters were sent down the visitor’s lift to much commotion in the Ministry, and the Weasleys headed back to Muriel’s manor. Hermione, however, went with George and Fred back to the Twins’ shop for the evening.

“So, Hermione,” George said, “now that you’re free to speak again, do want to go out for dinner? If we went to a muggle place, no one would notice you, you know.”

Hermione smiled at him: “Yes, I’d like that, George.”

“Great. We’ll just make sure the flat’s secure…”

The Twins went to open up the building when suddenly, they heard a disembodied voice whisper, “Psst, hey!”

Hermione, George, and Fred whirled around, their wands drawn. “Who’s there!” she ordered. “Show yourself!”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” the voice said as an invisibility cloak fell to the ground. “I was afraid I’d missed you. The shop was closed, I didn’t know how to get to your Aunt Muriel’s, and Sirius is miles out in muggle London. I thought I’d have to sneak back to the Hog’s Head and silence myself like you.”

“Harry?” Hermione said as she stared at him. “What are you doing here?”

“I, uh…kind of got run out of Hogwarts by an angry mob.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ligate Scripta: Latin for “bind writings”.
> 
> Prohibeo nomen Emma Granger adversus nomine illicito et tapu Voldemort: Latin for “I prohibit the name Emma Granger against the forbidden and taboo name Voldemort.”
> 
> Tapu: the original Tongan form of “taboo”.
> 
> Pone custodiam ori meo et ostium circumstantiae labiis meis: Modified from Psalm 141:3, “Set a guard over my mouth, LORD; keep watch over the door of my lips” (NIV), as recorded as Psalm 140:3 in the Latin Vulgate.
> 
> Exsolvite: Latin for “unbind”.


	49. Chapter 49

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Fortunately JK Rowling is not Taboo.

“An angry mob?” Hermione said sceptically.

“Well, it was an angry mob of Slytherins,” Harry said.

“And just _how_ were you run out of Hogwarts by an angry mob of Slytherins?”

“And what about everyone else?” Fred pointed out.

“Are Ron and Ginny okay?” said George.

“Er…probably?” he said. “I was the one they wanted. I won’t know for sure until I get to Sirius and call Ginny on his mirror, though.”

“So why’d you come to us first?” asked Fred.

“Well, I need you’re help. Hermione, you said you figured out a way around the Taboo.”

“Yes, but it won’t be safe to use it again for a while.”

“Oh…” Harry deflated. “That could be a problem.”

“Why?” she asked. “Are you still having a problem saying You-Know-Who’s name? I silenced myself to be safe, but you’ve had all this time to practice—”

“No, no, I’ve got pretty good about not saying You-Know-Who’s name. It’s just…” Harry hesitated sheepishly. “Ron says I talk in my sleep.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh. Bollocks.”

Fred and George exchanged an uncomfortable look. “So we need to do that again tonight,” George said.

“Or else silence Harry in his sleep,” Fred pointed out.

“Okay, this could be a problem,” Hermione said. She thought for a minute. “There’s the rings, obviously. And you probably should have sent me a message with that.” Harry blushed in embarrassment. “But even with that, it’ll be complicated getting everyone else back together. It might be better to go see Sirius first. You said you needed his mirror anyway. Can you take us there, Harry?”

“Er, yeah, I guess,” he said. “It’s a pretty long way from here, though.”

“We’ll take the Underground,” Hermione said firmly.

* * *

Between the two of them, it didn’t take very long to get to Sirius’s flat. It wasn’t a particularly nice flat, nor well-lived-in, but it was enough for a bachelor who didn’t spend that much of his time in the muggle world anyway. Sirius had been dismayed at Harry showing up at his door and very worried when he mentioned needing to do the ritual again. He got Harry his mirror, however, and he started calling on it.

“Harry Potter,” he said, since it was his own mirror he was calling.

It took some time to get an answer, but after a little while, Ginny’s voice sounded from the mirror: “Harry?”

“Ginny! Thank Merlin! Is everyone alright back there?”

“Yes, we’re fine, Harry,” she replied. “Or we will be. No one got seriously hurt, anyway. The teachers broke up the mob a little after you left. We barricaded ourselves in Gryffindor Tower, but the teachers sealed off all the dorms anyway. They’re going to decide what to do about it tomorrow morning. What about you? Did you get out okay?”

“Yeah. I caught Hermione, George, and Fred at the shop, and I’m at Sirius’s place now.”

“Okay, that’s good.”

“Yes,” Sirius cut in from behind them. Harry and Hermione spun around. “So talk. What happened.”

“ _Parkinson_ happened,” Harry groaned.

“Parkinson?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Mm hmm,” Ginny said from the mirror. “Apparently, since Malfoy’s dead, Parkinson decided to take up the cause. She fights better than I expected.”

“Really?”

Harry nodded: “She must have been training. With Dumbledore gone, everyone knows I’m the next person You-Know-Who wants dead, so all they have to do is find me and drag me to him. We all thought the teachers would keep things calm enough at Hogwarts for me to stay there, but it didn’t work out so well. Parkinson whipped up a bunch of the Slytherins to try to get me right in the middle of school.”

“Who?” Sirius said with a frown.

“All the boys in our year, plus Bulstrode. And some of the fifth- and seventh-years, but I don’t know them that well. I guess they wanted to catch me and take me to Hogsmeade so they could hand me to the Death Eaters or something. At least, that’s what Parkinson said.”

“And they just attacked you in the middle of the day?” he asked.

“Yeah. I was on my way to Arithmancy, so there weren’t many Gryffindors around. I wasn’t looking at the Marauder’s Map or anything since it was class hours, and they took me by surprise. I ran back to find Professor McGonagall—or _anyone—_ but they cut me off.”

“How did you get away?” Hermione said.

“I used your Flashbang Hex and a few other spells to make as much noise as I could to attract attention. A bunch of teachers and students came running, and some of the D.A. started hexing back, and it turned into a big battle. I slipped away with my invisibility cloak, and the teachers broke it up, but I watched them on the Marauder’s Map, and they were lying in wait for me again by dinner. I knew I couldn’t keep away from them all the time unless the teachers completely locked down the school.”

“Which they did during the Chamber of Secrets mess,” Hermione pointed out.

“Yes, but even if they did, Ginny, Ron, and I figured it’d be safer if I left. I was going to sneak out, but I tripped an alarm when I tried to go out the secret passage to Honeydukes. I forgot McGonagall sealed them all. I had to go out the main gate, and the whole school noticed so the Slytherins came after me again…So _that_ _’s_ how I got run out by an angry mob.”

“Ah. So you’re a fugitive, now,” Hermione said unhappily.

“Er…well, I guess. You-Know-Who still wants to kill me.”

“Not just that, Harry. You’re still underage, and you don’t have a tutor anymore. You’re technically truant.”

“Ha!” Sirius barked. “Good for you, Pup; you’re officially a juvenile delinquent. But Hermione’s right: this means the Death Eater-controlled Ministry could legitimately send Aurors to arrest you.”

“And _you_ as his guardian, if it comes to it,” Hermione pointed out. “At least if it’s done the same way as the muggle world.”

“Ooh, that’s right. Crap. Well, I was mostly gonna stay in hiding anyway. We’ll just be in hiding together, now.”

“Sure,” Harry said halfheartedly—more at having to go into hiding than at staying with Sirius, Hermione was sure. “The problem is the Taboo. Hermione, you said it won’t be safe to use your ritual again?”

“Right,” she said.

“But if Harry talks in his sleep…” Sirius said.

“Yes,” she admitted. “I think we need to gather the troops again.”

* * *

Hermione concluded that the fastest way to gather everyone back together again really was to use their rings: _URGENT—NEED TO REJOIN LIKE EARLIER._ The message would go to Septima and Cedric as well as the group they assembled before, but she was pretty sure Septima would understand her meaning, and she hadn’t been in contact with Cedric at all since she’d fled to Prewett Manor with the Weasleys. Thus, it was just the ten of them again, plus Harry. There really _was_ no time to get hold of anyone else this time. Eleven sounded like a pretty good-sized group, but it wasn’t when they had no idea was You-Know-Who would throw at them.

“I’m sorry to call you all back so soon,” Hermione told them when they assembled. Harry had briefly explained to them what happened. “I know we agreed it wouldn’t be safe to do this ritual again for a while, but with Harry out of Hogwarts, it’s more dangerous to leave it lie. Apparently, he talks in his sleep, so he’s not completely reliable about not breaking the Taboo. That means either silencing him in his sleep—probably for a lot longer than I was—or doing the ritual again tonight.”

“I hate to say this, it might still be safer just to silence Harry,” Tonks said. “There’s no way You-Know-Who won’t have noticed us using the Taboo against him.”

“I agree,” said Bill. “It’s possible he’s even figured out what we were doing near the rune stones, even after we Obliviated and moved the Death Eaters. And in that case, there’s a good chance he’ll have wised up that the next person we do the ritual for will be Harry.”

Harry blanched. Would You-Know-Who come in person, then? He’d certainly send the Death Eaters in force—enough force to fight eleven witches and wizards. “Whoa, whoa,” he said. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt because of me. I can be silenced like Hermione.”

Hermione looked at him uncomfortably. “It would be a trade-off, Harry,” she said. “You wouldn’t be any less safe than I was, I suppose, but you’re a bigger target. You’d have to make certain to only sleep somewhere you can’t be taken by surprise. And I assume you can dispel a Silencing Charm non-verbally?” He nodded. “So…well, I wasn’t really expecting this. I guess we’re going to wait for now?”

“I think that’s the best option,” Bill said.

“I agree,” said Sirius. “We don’t know what’s going to happen if we try it again now. Just be careful, Harry. It would only take one slip to ruin everything.”

“Believe me, Sirius, I know.”

“So where are you going to stay?” asked Hermione. “Just stick with Sirius for now?”

“Works for me,” Sirius answered for him. “And under Fidelius, of course. You’ll still be able to go out sometimes, but if the Aurors really do come after you, it might have to be in disguise or under your Cloak.”

“I’ll keep my ear to the ground there,” Tonks said.

“Thanks. What about Valentine’s Day, though?” Harry asked with a weak grin.

“Sorry, but Hogsmeade is a no-go, Pup,” Sirius said. “Even if it were safe to show your face in public normally, it would be a bad idea there with the same Slytherins who tried to kidnap you today milling around. And I don’t think we want Ginny to be seen on a date with a bloke who doesn’t look like you.”

Harry winced: “No, I guess you’re right…Hermione, d’you think you could get me into the castle Friday night? You were going to start visiting Professor Vector again, weren’t you?”

Hermione bit her lip and thought about it. “I was,” she said. “Next Saturday. I could make it Friday night. And once you’re inside, it wouldn’t be hard to hide you. You’ve got your Cloak, and I’ve got my Map…Actually, where’s the Marauder’s Map right now?”

“Ron and Ginny are holding on to it.”

“Right. Anyway, the hard part will be getting you in if they’ve closed all the secret passages.”

“What if I just follow you under my Cloak?”

“Would that work? I would’ve thought…Remus, you were a Defence Professor. Do you know if there’s a spell on the main doors that can detect invisibility cloaks?”

Remus shrugged noncommittally: “Yes and no. The wards can see through invisibility cloaks, or we couldn’t have got them to show up on the Marauder’s Map, and they could be configured to sound an alarm upon one crossing the threshold. But remember, Harry’s Cloak works differently from a normal one. They’d have to configure it specifically for him, and I trust everyone in the school who would be capable of doing that.”

“Oh, well, that could actually work, then. Still, it’s risky.”

“Yes, I’m all for young love, but there’s a point where it really does make you stupid,” Sirius agreed.

Harry glared at him, and Remus sent him a sceptical look, but Molly and Arthur were certainly for him playing it safe, and they said so. Harry relented and changed the subject: “Okay, but there’s one other thing about Hogwarts we might need to look into. I’ll need to talk to Hermione, George, and Fred about it.”

“What is it?” Hermione asked.

“I’m not sure. It might be nothing. But I have a feeling it’s important.”

She nodded. She could tell it was something he didn’t want to tell the rest of the Order, and that meant it probably _was_ important. She looked around and asked, “Sirius, Arthur, would it be okay if Harry stays at Prewett Manor tonight, then. I think he’s right: we need to talk soon.”

“Yes, I think that will be fine,” Sirius said. “Just don’t forget the Silencing Charm.”

“We’ll be happy to have you, Harry,” Arthur agreed, “and I’ll handle Muriel if there’s a problem. Alright? If there’s nothing else, we should be going.”

* * *

Harry met with Hermione and the Twins as soon as they could get some time alone. “So, what’s the trouble at Hogwarts, Harry?” Fred asked him. “You know, besides the obvious?”

“Okay, I noticed something when we had the first D.A. meeting of the term,” he said. “I’ve been wanting to ask you guys, how many people actually knew how the Room of Requirement _worked?_ Not just where it was, but how to set it and open it?”

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but she closed it again when she realised what Harry already had: the list wasn’t as long as she thought—namely, it wasn’t _everyone_ by now. She looked to George and Fred, and they looked similarly thoughtful. “Now that I think about it…” she said. “There was you, me, all the Weasleys. Georgina. Um…I might have told Septima at some point. Cedric knew…But I think that’s it. I showed other people the Room, but I didn’t actually tell them how it worked—Oh, Umbridge might have known. I don’t know how much the elves told her.”

Harry frowned: “Umbridge? Do you think she could have told Malfoy?”

“Malfoy?” she said in surprise. “Well, she certainly _could_ have, but I don’t see what her motive would have been. Why?”

“Remember when we were following Malfoy on your Map last term?” he said. “He was practically living in the Room of Requirement. He must have known how to get in somehow. _And_ he knew how to keep everyone else out.”

 _“Oh,”_ she said.

“Oh,” George and Fred agreed.

“‘I need a place to hide that will keep everyone else out,’ maybe?” she suggested.

“Maybe, but not many people would know to do that,” Harry said.

“Right…Well, it’s complicated. At the end of the day, it’s not an _actual_ secret,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s not being kept from anyone. The elves would’ve told anyone who asked. It’s just that no one in the school paid attention to the elves.”

“Hm, it’s still weird, though,” George said. “It’s secret enough that we kept the D.A. a secret in there, but lots of people find it. We found it hiding from Filch once before, and we know lots of people hide stuff in there.”

“But I don’t think many people figure out how it actually works,” Fred pointed out. “We sure didn’t, even when we went back and looked again.”

They fell silent, trying to process this. There was enough ambiguity that Malfoy could have got the information from somewhere else or even have figured it out for himself, although it was unlikely. But it still seemed suspicious.

Suddenly, Harry froze, and his eyes grew to the size of saucers.

“Harry? What’s wrong?” Hermione said.

“Oh my God,” he whispered. _“Hide.”_

“What?”

“If you wanted to hide something in Hogwarts so that no one would ever find it unless you knew exactly what to look for, and where and _how_ to look for it, where would you put it?”

Hermione’s eyes bugged out too, and so did the Twins’: “Holy cricket. You think You-Know-Who hid a horcrux there?”

“It could be. Where else in Hogwarts would be as good a hiding place? And it would explain how Malfoy knew how to get in there: You-Know-Who told him.”

“Yes, it would…but then, what was Malfoy doing in there? You-Know-Who wouldn’t have told him about his horcrux, would he.”

“I doubt it. Not without a really good reason, and there wouldn’t’ve been any reason for Malfoy to spend that long in there. I don’t know what he was doing, though.”

“So you need to get Bill to check out the Room, then?” said George.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Harry’s right. I still think the Chamber of Secrets would’ve been more secure, but I can’t think of anyplace else in Hogwarts that would be as safe…Oh…unless You-Know-Who asked for a room that only he could get into. That could be a problem.”

“Can the Room shut everyone out like that?” George asked.

“Or can Bill cursebreak his way through it?” Fred added.

“I don’t know—to either. It’s almost certainly possible to do from the anchor stones, but that would be hard and time-consuming. We should at least check and see if we can get into the Room directly, though. And I think that’ll be a good excuse to get you into the castle on Friday, Harry.”

* * *

Friday came around, and after a lunch date with George, Hermione met up with Bill and Harry in order to get them into the castle and also take care of a bunch of other stuff she needed to handle. She was actually staying the night, just like old times—the old times of two months ago, anyway. Harry would be staying too, under somewhat different circumstances, and Bill would be staying in a guest room, just to round things out.

Hermione and Bill walked into Hogwarts openly that afternoon, with Harry going under his invisibility cloak between them. They wouldn’t have a lot of time to investigate that day. Harry wanted to spend the evening with Ginny, and Hermione had her own friends to see. But Bill being there to “investigate the curse” gave her a pretext to come that afternoon instead of the next morning, since she was still studying Runes under him. Hermione checked the Mathemagician’s Map to make sure the coast was clear, and they made their way to the Room of Requirement straightaway.

“So this is the Room,” Hermione told Bill, motioning to the blank stretch of wall. “The way to open it is to walk past it three times whilst thinking about what you need. So if you think, ‘We need a place to practice defensive magic,’ it’ll turn into the D.A. training room.”

“I see. Interesting,” Bill said. “So if I think, ‘I need to find a horcrux’…?”

“Well, You-Know-Who is probably smarter than that, but in principle, yes, that’s the idea.”

“Might as well try it, though,” Harry said. He proceeded to walk down the corridor three times, but no door appeared. “Nope. I guess not,” he said.

“Mm, Hermione’s right,” Bill said. “You-Know-Who is smarter than that. We can try a few variations, but we’ll probably have to unravel the enchantments on the Room instead. Maybe…‘I need a place to hide a horcrux?’ Maybe if we ask for something more generic, it’ll create the same room every time.” He walked the corridor for himself, slowly, both trying to get used to the idea of how it worked and feel out the magic, but nothing happened. “Well, I didn’t think so. That’s if there’s even one here. We might be on a wild niffler chase.”

“Wait, Bill,” Hermione stopped him. “You specifically thought, ‘I need a place to hide _a_ horcrux?’”

“Yeah.”

“But if there’s no horcrux in there, the Room would have no reason to lock that command out.”

Harry gasped: “Bloody hell, I was right! You-Know-Who _must_ have hidden it here! The Room wouldn’t care about that otherwise.”

The three of them redoubled their efforts, trying any combination of words they could think of to try to reveal the horcrux’s hiding place. Bill kept a lookout for any glimmer of magic that would show they were on the right track, but they ultimately found nothing. You-Know-Who was too many steps ahead of them.

“The Room _is_ working, isn’t it?” Bill asked.

“It should be,” said Harry. “We were still using it for D.A. meetings up till last week.”

Hermione quickly set the Room to the D.A. training room, and Bill started running his wand all over it inside and out. “Amazing,” he muttered. “This is incredible magic. It must have been built by Rowena Ravenclaw herself. I could learn so much from this.”

“Does that include how to find the horcrux?” Harry demanded.

“Unfortunately not. But if we go down and scour the anchor stones, we should be able to find the runes that govern it, and then I can go to work.”

“Right. Before we do that, do you think we can try to find out what Malfoy was up to in here?” he asked. “I should’ve thought to do that sooner.”

“Sure, if you like. I don’t know how much it will matter now, though.”

“I’m just worried about what other plans he might have been working on. He certainly didn’t _plan_ to kill Dumbledore the way he did.” He walked back and forth three times, but no door appeared.

“What were you thinking?” asked Hermione.

“‘I need to see what Draco Malfoy was doing in here.’”

“Well, that’s not exactly a place, is it?”

“No, I guess not. Let’s try…‘I need the place where Draco Malfoy was coming secretly.’” However, that didn’t produce a door either. “Oh, come off it,” he argued with the wall. “That was a clear instruction.”

Hermione rolled her eyes, but tried one of her own: _We need the room that the Room became for Draco Malfoy._ This didn’t yield results either, though, and after they tried a couple more variations, the Room was as stubborn as ever.

“It’s no good, Harry,” Bill said. “You-Know-Who probably told Malfoy how to lock the Room, too.”

“I’m surprised it’s still doing that even after he’s dead,” Harry replied.

“It’s not that surprising,” said Hermione. “A computer doesn’t care if it’s owner is alive or dead. If you lose the password to one, you can’t get it back without special tools—disassemble it and read it off the hard drive or something.”

Bill shook his head in confusion: “I don’t know what that means, but I’m not surprised the Room remembers whatever orders are given to it. Come on, we’ll have to figure it out from the anchor stones.” He turned to go, but Harry stopped him.

“Hang on, let me try one more thing for the horcrux first,” he said. Bill stopped and waited as he concentrated and walked past the invisible door three times. Then, to their amazement, an ornate door appeared in the wall. He stopped and stared himself. “Guys…I think it worked.”

Hermione and Bill were staring at _him_ in amazement. “How?” Hermione gasped. “How did you do that?”

Harry smiled a slightly bewildered smile: “I just thought, ‘I need the place where everything is hidden.’”

Her jaw dropped. “That’s _it?!_ ” she exclaimed. “All you had to do was ask for _root access?!_ What kind of dumb security system is that? That’s the complete opposite of a secure system.”

“Well, to be fair, I don’t think it was designed as a secure system,” Bill pointed out.

Hermione couldn’t refute that. After all, Rowena Ravenclaw probably hadn’t intended the Room as a secret chamber like Salazar Slytherin’s opus. Rather more likely, it was a configurable workspace—one that could house multiple laboratories at once and be sealed against busybodies and troublemakers, but not kept hidden from the world. That was what Hermione would have done, after all. Only, its secrets had been lost somewhere along the way. Why or how was anyone’s guess.

“Well, let’s check it out,” Harry said. He opened the door and froze. “Oh…”

Hermione poked her head in under Harry’s and was stunned by what she saw. “Bloody hell, ‘oh’ is right.”

Bill looked too: “Merlin’s saggy bollocks.”

The room that the Room of Requirement had become was the size of a large cathedral. Hermione thought it might well have been the largest single enclosed room in the world when Hogwarts was built. It was two or three times the size of the Great Hall and absolutely _filled_ with junk—some of it hundreds of years old, in piles stretching all the way up to the rafters. By volume, most of it was broken or discarded furniture, and most of _that_ , she realised, was probably put here by the house elves, wanting to keep the school clean. Someone needed to talk to them about long-term planning, she thought idly. If even a fraction of this were repaired, the castle could be restocked with furniture for a generation.

But there was much more. A huge amount of the contents of the room were clearly student possessions, some of them contraband, and some just lost. A few of what she recognised as Winged Catapults and Fanged Frisbees hovered listlessly over the piles of rubble while pixies and doxies flitted around them. No doubt many more of all of the above were lying dead on the floor. There were piles of books—enough to add a whole new annex to the library—many of which were probably banned and could possibly help her with her horcrux research. There was clothing, jewelry, weapons, artifacts, expired potions that looked dangerous to touch, and even things that looked worryingly like dragon eggshells.

She couldn’t believe she’d never seen this version of the Room before. She knew the elves used the Room for storage, and she’d even called specific items out of storage, but she’d never thought to look at was the actual storage space looked like.

“My God,” she whispered. “Students must have been finding this Room practically every day and hiding things here for the past thousand years. I can’t believe You-Know-Who didn’t think anyone else would figure it out, even if most of them never found it again.”

“Aside from the fact that it would take forever to find anything in here,” Bill said.

“But you _can_ find it, right?” Harry asked.

“Yes, I can find it, but it’ll take time. More time than we have tonight, and that’s _if_ it’s in here.”

“If the Room interpreted Harry’s command literally, it’ll be in here,” Hermione said firmly, but he was right. She did some quick mental maths and decided that finding anything in here would be roughly equivalent to finding one particular item in a shopping mall that had been hit by a hurricane. The only reason it wouldn’t be completely intractable was that Bill could use dark magic detection spells, and that only meant they could narrow it down and sift through thousands of items rather than hundreds of thousands.

“Well, lets get to work,” Bill said.

They made a non-negligible dent by dinner time—or rather Bill did, since Harry and Hermione didn’t know enough dark detection spells to sort through this much of a magical mess. It was enough that Hermione was confident they could find the horcrux by the end of the term, even if they only came in once a week. In the meantime, Hermione sifted through the books, looking for any that were in a good enough condition to use and looked like they would be useful to her research. It galled her to see books treated like this, but she had to prioritise right now. She put the ones that were useful to her in her expanded handbag.

After some consideration, they decided to take dinner in the kitchens. Hermione could have got away with going to the Great Hall, but Harry and Bill couldn’t, and she didn’t want to stir up any trouble. The elves were naturally happy to see her and were greatly relieved that the Boy-Who-Lived was alright and sneaking around with no trouble. They didn’t say what they were doing at Hogwarts, of course, and the elves didn’t pry. One of the things they were best at was discretion, after all.

One notable thing did happen during their dinner, though. Sonya came up to Hermione, looking very nervous. The young, blond elf had cut her hair short again, like when Hermione had first met her, and had an air of uncertainty about her.

“Excuse me, Miss Hermione. Could you call Dobby for me, please?” she said.

“Of course, Sonya,” she said. “Dobby?”

Dobby appeared with a pop, and Sonya quickly ran to him and kissed him. Hermione knew the two elves had been dating—or whatever it was house elves called dating—for nearly a year, but she hadn’t pried into their relationship or even really seen them together. She was surprised how much Dobby’s nose could bend, which was the only way they could make the kiss work.

“I needs to talk to you alone, Dobby,” Sonya said quietly. Dobby looked up at Hermione, who nodded quickly, and they hurried off together.

“What was that about?” Bill asked.

“No idea,” Hermione said. “Dobby’s only my employee. His private life isn’t my business.”

“That still seems weird to me, but whatever works for you, I guess.”

It wasn’t until they finished dinner that Dobby and Sonya came back. Sonya still looked nervous, and Dobby was leading her by the hand.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked them.

“Nothing is wrong, Miss Hermione,” Dobby said. “But Sonya needs to talk to Professor McGonagall.”

“Um…okay,” she said. “We were just finishing here. We can go now if you want.”

“I…I would like that, Hermione,” Sonya said quietly.

Using the Mathemagician’s Map to navigate around any troublemakers again, Hermione led the elves up to the Headmistress’s Office. She still didn’t know what was happening, but if Sonya needed help, she would give it to her. “Please tell Professor McGonagall that Hermione Granger is here to see her,” she told the gargoyle, and a minute later, it stepped aside, allowing them to climb up the stairs.

Professor McGonagall had kept the more austere setting that she had turned Dumbledore’s office into. It was more in line with her character compared with Dumbledore’s flamboyant personality, Hermione thought. “Good evening, Miss Granger,” she said when she saw her. “How can I help you.”

“Actually, ma’am, one of your elves wanted to talk to you,” Hermione said.

McGonagall leaned over her desk to see the elves and conjured two stools for them to sit on.

“I believe you know Dobby, ma’am,” Hermione reintroduced them. “And you might remember this is Sonya. She’s been my friend since first year, and she’s also Dobby’s girlfriend.”

“Yes, I believe so,” the Headmistress replied. “Sonnitt, I believe it was? Yes, I remember, although I didn’t know you were in a relationship. What did you need to tell me.”

Sonya took a deep breath. “Professor McGonagall, ma’am…” she said haltingly. “Sonnitt…I…” She stopped and looked to Dobby. He squeezed her hand encouragingly. “I have decided… _I wants to be free, ma_ _’am_ ,” she squeaked very fast.

Hermione’s eyes widened. She almost couldn’t believe her ears. Sonya wanted to be free? For years, she’d been hoping that Dobby quietly working with the castle elves, setting an example for them, would inspire other elves to aspire to freedom, but she’d long since given up on actually seeing it happen. Now, it finally worked. What had changed? Was it just because they were together now?

McGonagall’s mouth dropped open. “I—excuse me, this hasn’t ever happened since I’ve been a professor. Ah…you don’t have to answer, Sonnitt, but may I ask why?”

Sonya looked down and collected herself: “Last year, ma’am, we elves had to obey Professor Umbridge when she was made the fake Headmistress, even though…even though…” She gazed at McGonagall expectantly.

“Speak freely, Sonnitt. I’m sure I could say worse about her than you could,” McGonagall said.

“Even though we knew she was a bad mistress, ma’am,” Sonya whispered. “You was still able to overrule her, but we couldn’t always go to you. We hads to rat out Hermione and her friends to Professor Umbridge, and I almost wasn’t able to warn her. Elves should not have to hurt their friends, ma’am. I do not ever wants that to happen again, ma’am, and now that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is strong again, I am scared what will happen.”

“Oh my,” Hermione said. “You’re doing this for _me_ , Sonya?”

“That is being one reason, Hermione,” Sonya said, blushing a little. “Also, Dobby is very happy being free and working for…for money. He has told me a lot about it and why it is better, and why it should not be a shame on an elf. Not having to worry about bad masters is just one of the reasons.”

Hermione thought she might cry. “Oh, Sonya,” she said, and she hugged the little elf, who squeaked in surprise. “I fully support your decision, you know—as long as you’re really doing it for yourself. I’ll even see if I can find someone who’s willing to pay you to work.” Even as she said it, the germ of an idea began to form in her mind. Her first thought was Bill and Fleur or George and Fred, but as much as Molly appreciated having Dobby around at Prewett Manor, she suspected the Weasleys would be too proud to hire a domestic worker. No, the people to go to for actually _paying_ an elf would be the muggle-borns—muggle-borns who could also most use an elf in these dangerous times, and from that perspective, the choice was obvious.

“You make a very well reasoned argument, Sonnitt,” McGonagall spoke up. “Professor Dumbledore would have been proud.” Sonya squeaked and nodded tearfully. “And, I might add, if other options don’t work for you, I would be happy to hire you back for pay, just as Dumbledore arranged with Miss Granger for Dobby’s work.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sonya said.

“So you are certain you want to free?” she asked, to be clear. Sonya nodded again. “Very well.” Professor McGonagall was wearing something like a light jumper over her robes. She removed this and shrunk it down to Sonya’s size and handed it to her. At a nudge from Dobby, Sonya reached out with trembling hands and accepted it. “Sonnitt, I release you from service to Hogwarts,” McGonagall said. “Go, and do as you will.”

Sonya started crying. Hermione couldn’t tell if it was from joy, fear, or both, but Dobby comforted her and helped her put the jumper on. She ran her small fingers over it reverently. It must be strange, Hermione thought. She’d never really thought about it when she first hired Dobby, but the elf had literally never worn normal clothes in her life, and she had probably never wanted to for most of it. It wouldn’t surprise her if she found them irritating or constricting. Right now, though, she looked so overwhelmed she might faint, and Dobby had to help her stand up.

“Dobby, take care of her however you need to,” Hermione said, and to McGonagall, she added, “Thank you for that, Professor.”

“No trouble at all, Miss Granger. As irregular as it is, Hogwarts policy is to free any elf who wants it. I do hope you’ll find a good place for her.”

“Don’t worry, ma’am. I have a few ideas.”

That encounter gave Hermione one more errand to run that night, but there was still only one person she needed to visit from Ravenclaw. The rest were all in Gryffindor Tower, to which Ginny had given her and Harry the password. Luckily, it wasn’t curfew yet, and she found Luna Lovegood in a surprisingly normal place: the library. Even as a Ravenclaw, that was more surprising that it ought to be for her.

“Hello, Hermione. How are you this evening?” she said when she saw her, as if nothing were out of the ordinary about Hermione being in the castle.

“As well as I can be, Luna. Yourself?”

“It’s not as happy here since Professor Dumbledore died, but I’m getting by. The D.A. is still very enjoyable. Did you need to talk to me about something?”

“Er, yes. There’s something I need to give you. But not here. Can we go someplace more private?”

“Of course, Hermione.”

Hermione led her up to the Room of Requirement, which wasn’t _too_ far out of the way from the library. There, she retrieved one of her rings and handed it to Luna. “Here, I want you to have this,” she said.

Luna’s eyes widened comically as she looked at the ring. “Why Hermione, this is so sudden,” she said, sounding completely amazed. “I had no idea you felt that way about me. But you know we can’t be together. You couldn’t do that to George, and even if you weren’t with him, you’re too late. My heart belongs to someone else.”

Hermione gaped at the younger girl, her brain derailed. Luna sounded totally serious, but seeing as this was Luna, she had no idea whether she was actually serious or not, and—oddly completely orthogonal to that—she had no idea whether to burst out laughing or not.

However, Luna solved that problem for her when she burst out laughing herself in loud peals that sounded almost like music. “You—you should have seen your face, Hermione!” she gasped.

“How…? When did you learn to prank like that, Luna?” she said in shock.

“Oh, I’ve picked up things watching the Weasley Twins and others over the years. I’m surprised you didn’t see that coming, having George as a boyfriend.”

Hermione shook her head: “I would have expected it from a lot of people, but not from you…Say, your heart belongs to someone else?” she grinned. “Who’s the lucky boy?”

Luna blushed lightly, but she answered, “Neville, of course. He’s a very nice, sweet boy, and stronger than he looks…But enough about me. Clearly, there’s something important about that ring. What is it?”

“Right. It’s like the D.A. galleons, except you can send messages back that go direct to me. And I’ve been more selective about who I give them to. I’ve only given them to people I completely trust who can form the backbone of a resistance movement if it comes to it. And yes, I will be giving one to Neville, too.”

“Oh. That’s very thoughtful of you Hermione. I’m glad you trust me with this. How do I send messages.”

“It uses something called a tap code. It’s very easy to remember…”

Once Hermione explained to Luna how the ring worked, she climbed up to Gryffindor Tower and slipped in. After the initial surprise at her visit wore off, her old house accepted her back as a guest. She quickly sought out Neville, Ron, and Ginny and gave them their rings. Predictably, Ron was being saccharine with Parvati, and Ginny was being almost as saccharine with Harry, but she didn’t mind too much. Once that was taken care of, she sought ought the last pair of people on her list—not for rings, but for another pressing issue.

“Colin, Dennis,” she said.

“Hi, Hermione,” Colin Creevey greeted her excitedly. “How’ve you been?”

“Busy. Long story. How about you?”

“Not too bad. It was scary when Harry got chased out last week, though, but it’s calmed down since then.”

“Ron and Ginny are keeping up the D.A., so that’s good,” Dennis added. “Is Harry gonna be back a lot?”

“Probably not,” Hermione said. “It’s harder to sneak in now. I only brought him today because of a special assignment Dumbledore left us. But I have something else to talk to you about,” she added before they could interrogate her on that. “I haven’t really been keeping track. How much money are you making with Creevey Bros. Pictures?”

Colin and Dennis glanced at each other. “Quite a bit,” said Colin. “I know we haven’t really been able to send you your dividends regularly with the security going on. If you need to collect—”

“No, no, I’m not worried about that. I’ve got more than that coming in from other sources. I’m just asking how the business is going.”

“Oh, pretty good, actually. Our photo-essays on the Triwizard Tournament got a lot of attention, and people like being able to turn Omniocular recordings into photos.”

“Kinda took folks a while to catch on, but now, we don’t have time to take all the orders with school,” Dennis said.

Hermione grinned. That was even better than she’d expected. “So you have enough money to hire a new employee?”

“An employee?” they said in unison. “That’d be great,” Colin continued, “but how can we hire someone while we’re still in school. We don’t have a shop or anything.”

“I happen to know a newly-freed house elf who’s in need of a job,” she said. “I figured as muggle-borns, you’d be better people to ask to actually pay an elf, an she can help protect you from Death Eaters in an emergency. She doesn’t know anything about photography yet, I admit, but she’s bright and should be a quick study. And she’ll work for a galleon a week plus room and board.”

Colin’s and Dennis’s eyes widened. “A galleon a week?” Dennis exclaimed. “How do elves work so cheap?”

“They’re not used to having money. And truth be told, they don’t really need much. So what do you think? Will that work for you?”

“Yeah, definitely,” Colin said. “If she’s good with it. It’d be great to have someone to do the work. We’ll have time to try new stuff like…I dunno, films or something. So can we meet her? If we’re doing this properly, we should probably give her an interview or something.”

Hermione chuckled and called her: “Sonya?”

Nothing happened.

“And…she’s not tied to anyone who can call her, is she?” She’d nearly forgotten that Dobby needed a special trace to respond to her call. “Um…let’s see if this works. Dobby and Sonya?”

That apparently got the message across to Dobby, or else he was anticipating her will because both elves popped into the room in front of her. Sonya still looked singularly odd wearing Professor McGonagall’s jumper over her Hogwarts tea towel, and she still looked unsure of herself. “Yes, Miss Hermione?” Dobby asked.

“Sonya, I told you I had an idea of someone you could work for. These are Colin and Dennis Creevey. They’re muggle-born, so they won’t mind paying an elf, and they could use an extra pair of hands for their business. Colin, Dennis, this is Sonya. She’s been my friend for several years, and I can testify that she’s willing to go above and beyond for her friends. I’ll let you talk things over, and if you decide to hire her, I’ll draw up a contract for you tomorrow based on Dobby’s.”

“Great. Thanks, Hermione,” Colin said.

“Yes, thank you, Hermione,” Sonya said with tears in her eyes.

“No problem.”

Wearily, Hermione trudged up the stairs to the sixth-year girls’ dorm. While she could have slept in the Room of Requirement again, she was already in the Tower, and she thought it would be nice to join her old roommates again for old times’ sake.

“Hermione! It’s so good to see you!” Lavender squealed when she saw her and hugged her enthusiastically. “It’s been so long. You’re hardly ever around anymore. How have you been?”

“Oh, I’ve been getting by, Lav. It’s been a hard year. I’m—” She stopped when she saw the room. There were only four beds.

“Sorry, Hermione. You’re not enrolled anymore. We don’t have a bed for you.”

“It’s fine, Lavender. I can just call…hmm…” Dobby and Sonya were out so… “Tilly?”

Nothing happened.

“Or… _I_ _’m_ the one who’s not tied into the wards anymore,” she said. She briefly wondered if she could rig the Mathemagician’s Map to call elves, but that was a project for another day. “Lav, could you call an elf named Tilly for me?”

“Um…okay…Tilly?”

 _Pop!_ “What can I help you with, miss—” The grey-haired elf stopped when she saw Hermione. “Hermione Granger!” she squeaked angrily. “You has led my granddaughter astray into f-f- _freedom!_ ” She punctuated each word by poking Hermione in the stomach, pushing her back towards the wall.

“Oi! Now just a minute, Tilly,” she said indignantly while her former roommates looked on in surprise. “Sonya made her decision on her own, and for good reasons. I’ve barely even talked to her since I left Hogwarts. Besides, you know she’s always been a rebel.”

“You allows Dobby to date her,” Tilly snapped. Lavender and Parvati gasped excitedly.

“Dobby is my paid employee, Tilly. I don’t have the authority to forbid him from dating anyone even if I wanted to.”

“You and Dobby is corrupting influences—”

“I’m not going to apologise for doing what I believe to be the right thing, Tilly. I just wanted to ask if it was possible to bring a spare bed in here for the night.

Tilly crossed her arms. “Elves is not needing to obey you now you is not a student,” she sniffed.

Hermione sighed heavily and looked up at Lavender expectantly. Lavender got the hint and said, “Er, Tilly, could you bring a spare bed in here for Hermione, please?”

Tilly hesitated with indecision, but then, her resolve returned. “No, Miss Brown,” she said. “Hogwarts rules says students is not to have guests in the dorms.” And then, she popped away without another word.

“Wow, Tilly must be really angry,” Hermione said.

“Hermione,” Lavender gasped worriedly, “do you realise what just happened? A house elf just _disobeyed_ us!”

“No, she just interpreted her orders in a way that she didn’t have to do anything for me. She technically wasn’t out of line. Sorry for the house elf soap opera, Lavender. I’ll just go.”

“Nonsense, Hermione,” Lavender said. “We can make do.”

“You can have my bed,” Sally-Anne spoke up. “I’ll kip with Lily.”

Hermione glanced between Sally-Anne and her girlfriend. “I’m…not sure that would be appropriate,” she said awkwardly.

Sally-Anne laughed: “We share a dorm, Hermione. It’s not like the professors can stop us. Anyway, it’s the least I can do after everything you’ve done for me.”

“Well, alright…” she agreed. She supposed it was already halfway to being a sleepover as it was.

“So, how _did_ you get in a fight with a house elf?” asked Parvati.

Hermione smiled: “It’s like Tilly said: I finally corrupted another elf enough to want to be freed…”


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Remember the Four D’s: Destination, Determination, Deliberation, and JK Rowling. Wait a minute…

Hermione woke the next morning and proceeded down to the Great Hall for breakfast. When the other girls had mentioned Apparition lessons, she had an idea, and with that idea, she decided there was no use staying in hiding. Bill and Harry, of course, would be hiding or perhaps working in the Room of Requirement until the afternoon, but this was also an important “project”, as was her _other_ horcrux project, so she begged off.

Few people batted an eye when she arrived at breakfast. Gryffindor already knew she was there, Slytherin couldn’t make much trouble from the far side of the Hall, and no one else really cared. After breakfast, the House Tables were removed, and several dozen hoops were placed across the floor. It was the third week of Apparition Lessons, and although it was also a Hogsmeade weekend, the sixth-years were staying in for the morning to work on their Apparition. The lessons brought back memories of her own training; the students were all working on the Three D’s while Wilkie Twycross flitted around and gave them vague and generally unhelpful advice. Occasionally, someone would splinch themselves, and the Heads of House would have to set them right. Hermione would have offered to help, but her own understanding of Apparition required at least a passing knowledge of general relativity and four-dimensional geometry, so she didn’t think she could do much for most of the class.

Instead, Hermione had her own goal in mind—and as she approached, she mentally added how to undo splinching to the list. She didn’t know if there was a class or anything for that, but she was sure it would be a very valuable skill.

“Hello, Mr. Twycross,” she greeted the instructor.

“Ah, Hermione Granger,” the little wizard said. “A pleasure to see you again. You’re doing well?”

“I—I’d rather not talk about the war, but I’m getting by,” she said. It was still awkward for her to pretend to be grieving the loss of her parents just a few weeks earlier. She was worried she’d come across as bipolar or something if she wasn’t careful.

“Ah. That seems to be the story of many of us these days,” he said. “Your Apparition is still good, I hope. You were such an excellent student.”

“It is, Mr. Twycross, thank you. I actually had a question about that. I’m going to be here Saturday mornings for a while—I hope. I was wondering if you could teach me Side-Along Apparition while I’m here. I can pay, of course.”

“Oh…? Ah, yes, I suppose I could,” he said. “A student as bright as you should catch on very quickly. Yes, let me just get the form for the course.”

Mr. Twycross produced a form, which she filled out quickly, and she handed over twelve galleons for the lessons. Slowly, in between helping the other students, he began explaining the principles of Side-Along Apparition in his usual opaque, obtuse style. It wasn’t really that different from regular Apparition. The main difference was in the “determination” part. With regular Apparition, you had to “visualise” your whole body teleporting from one place to another, but with Side-Along, you had to visualise yourself plus another person you were holding onto. There was also the technical detail in “deliberation” where the extra weight threw off the “turn on the spot” manoeuvre, but that was secondary.

“Just like regular Apparition, the only way to learn it is to practice,” Mr. Twycross said, “but as it is more likely to have serious consequences if it goes wrong, you will begin with a prop.” He then transfigured a human-sized rag-doll—much lighter than a real person and limp enough that Hermione had to hug it like a big stuffed animal to hold it upright. “Just the same as when you learnt the first time,” he said. “Try to Apparate yourself and the mannequin into the hoop.”

Hermione held the rag-doll tight, turned through the fourth dimension, and easily Apparated into the hoop. Then, she looked down; and she screamed, dropped the rag-doll, and jumped back. She’d left behind the left arm, the left leg, and what would have been the spleen, a kidney, and a large chunk of the intestines on a human. She was shaking as she turned around and saw the missing parts lying on the floor behind her. Splinching that severe would be lethal without immediate medical attention, even with the magic protecting against the worst effects.

“Aha! The classic mistake,” Mr. Twycross said as cheerfully as ever. “You are being insufficiently determined. You must be fully determined for yourself and your passenger to occupy the visualised space, and what is satisfactory for solo Apparition will not do here.”

Hermione nodded absently. “I’m starting to see why this is an emergency measure,” she said. She wondered how Dobby did it so easily. He had Side-Alonged two people at once without blinking before. Maybe she should ask him for advice.

It was only after several failed attempts (though none as spectacular as her first one), that she penetrated Mr. Twycross’s fuzzy explanation and realised her mistake. She hadn’t actually been _visualising_ herself teleporting from one place to another. She’d been taking a shortcut—so subtle she hadn’t even known she was doing it—by _feeling_ her body as a whole with her proprioception. Since she couldn’t feel the rag-doll as a part of herself, she had trouble taking the whole thing with her. Once she figured that out, she did a lot better, though she still couldn’t consistently Apparate without splinching it by the end of the lesson, and she even splinched herself once when her focus went off. That was sobering. She thought she’d left that behind long ago.

“Not to worry, Miss Granger. You are still making excellent progress,” Mr. Twycross assured her. “Once you have mastered this, we will progress to more lifelike mannequins until you are ready to Apparate with a live human.”

“Thank you, Mr. Twycross,” she said. “I’ll really be looking forward to getting this right.”

* * *

Hermione made her way to Septima’s apartment for her next appointment. Her favourite teacher greeted her warmly and served up tea, and they settled in to talk.

“So I heard you made quite a stir last night, Hermione,” Septima said.

Hermione went stiff. “Er, in what way?” she asked.

“Something about freeing one of the castle house elves?”

“Oh, _that_ ,” she said with relief. “Well, that’s—Sonya wanted to be free—and mostly without my intervention. I can’t take much credit for that.”

Septima smiled knowingly: “You know better than that, Hermione. We both know you befriended that elf more than most humans ever befriend any elf. And I believe she’s actually dating your Dobby?”

“He’s not ‘my’ Dobby,” she said automatically, “but yes, I suppose so. And I admit I’ve been hoping to convert an elf or two to freedom ever since I hired Dobby, but I really wasn’t expecting Sonya to ask for it.”

“So what’s going to happen to her now? You know how hard it is for free elves to find work.”

Hermione smiled back at her: “Not with a muggle-born, Septima. I referred her to the Creevey Brothers. I’m sure she’ll do well with them.”

“Perhaps. Now, I’ve heard some interesting rumours about you, and I got your message a few weeks ago about the Taboo Curse on the Dark Lord’s name. If I understand correctly, you found some way to block it?”

“Yes, I did,” she said. “I developed a reversible ritual to bind my tongue to stop myself from saying it.”

Septima’s eyes widened. “You _created_ a ritual?” she said. “A _reversible_ ritual?”

“Yes. It took a lot of work, and I had to use one of Professor Snape’s spells as a starting point, but it wasn’t too complicated once I found the right solution.” She sketched out an outline of the maths behind the ritual for Septima to analyse. Her teacher was impressed and a little shaken at her casual use of ritual magic.

“I must say, ritual magic is a dangerous field, Hermione,” she said. “Even many arithmancers never touch it, especially at your age. It’s not a field that lends itself well to arithmantic analysis in the first place.”

“It is if you apply Noether’s theorem. You could interpret rituals as magic bound by special conservation laws like the Law of Equivalent Exchange. And muggle science works with conservation laws all the time. I’d talked with Dumbledore about arithmantically breaking down individual ritual elements, but Noether’s theorem gives a straightforward way to represent the conservation laws in terms of functional analysis. It makes it much easier.” As she started to sketch this out as well, Septima’s jaw dropped.

“Merlin’s beard, Hermione! Do you know what your holding in your hands right now? Arithmancers are almost never able to fully quantify ritual magic. This could systematise ritual-making the same way algebra and calculus did spellcrafting.”

 _Yes, that_ _’s what I’m hoping for_ , Hermione thought. She’d had an inkling of this since arithmancy had only scratched the surface of the parts where Noether’s theorem applied, but this was confirmation.

“You…you _have_ kept this a secret, haven’t you?” Septima asked.

“Of course I have. Actually, should I seal the door if it’s this sensitive?”

“Be my guest,” Septima said.

Hermione nodded and pointed her wand at the door: _“Lokutharmeth!”_

There was a flash of sparks all the way around the door frame that looked almost like a welding torch.

“Um…What did you _do?_ ” Septima asked.

“It’s my new Door-Sealing Spell. It welds the lock and the hinges together and fuses them to the frame. It also bypasses just about every unlocking charm there is because it physically fuses the door in place instead of binding the mechanism. It’s the strongest locking charm it’s really feasible to cast, since at that point, the most efficient way through without the counterspell would be to rip out the entire door frame.”

Septima whistled, impressed. “That’s more like a transfiguration combined with a ward than a traditional charm,” she said. “You _have_ been busy, haven’t you? Anyway, we can talk more about ritual magic, but I guess you have other concerns, so what did you actually come here to talk about today? Did you want to continue the work we started before…before the regime change?”

“Yes. Being able to do something with the Killing Curse. And parallel to that, I’ve been thinking about a soul-detecting spell, but soul magic is a little out of my field.”

“Yes, mine too. In fact, the only person I would guess would have known much about it whom I trusted was Dumbledore.”

“Yes, I was afraid of that,” Hermione agreed. “But I may have another resource. I recently came upon a cache of rare books, and I thought we could go through them and see if they contained anything useful.”

“Rare books? Where did you find those? Not the library, I assume?”

Hermione smiled at her. “Hogwarts still has her secrets,” she said.

“Of course. I should have known. Let’s take a look then.”

Hermione and Septima went through the stack of books. Septima was horrified by how dark some of them were, even as she admitted they could be useful. “You should really be careful with mysterious books,” she said. “It’s not uncommon for them to be pretty heavily cursed. Especially old family grimoires and the like. I’ve heard stories of ones that would burn the eyes out of anyone outside the family who tried to read them.”

Hermione shuddered, but it wasn’t surprising given what families like the Malfoys got up to. However, she’d learnt her lesson back in second year with Riddle’s diary. “I was careful,” she said. “I checked them for traps before I opened them.” She _had_ had to ask Bill for help with a couple of them, but he said they didn’t have particularly bad curses on them and undid them easily. Besides, she doubted a pureblood would be foolish enough to lose a family grimoire in Hogwarts anyway.

She set aside a few books that seemed to touch on the rudiments of soul magic, and after that, they returned to their previous discussion of the Killing Curse. “So no one’s really done an arithmantic analysis of the Killing Curse yet,” Hermione pointed out. “And we know it’s more complicated than a traditional curse. But I don’t quite understand what branch of magic it falls under. We didn’t discuss that before. Is it considered soul magic or something else?”

“It’s traditionally regarded as soul magic,” Septima says. “It severs the soul from the body, after all.”

“But it also kills the body,” Hermione pointed out. “We know what happens when the soul is removed from the body by the Dementor’s Kiss, and the effects are completely different.”

“Yes, that is true,” Septima agreed, “but people who die by other causes can sometimes be revived. Even wizards know that. That’s not true with the Killing Curse.”

“Yes, but that’s also not brain death…Okay, let’s look at this from a different angle. Does _rigor mortis_ set in faster in a body that’s been killed by the Killing Curse?”

“Does—does _rigor mortis_ set in faster?” Septima said in surprise. “Um…no, I don’t believe it does. Why?”

“Because _rigor mortis_ is when actual _cell_ death sets in in the muscles. If the Killing Curse doesn’t speed it up, then it doesn’t kill the body on the cellular level. And we sort of knew that already; plants—well, the effect is totally different there. The curse explodes if it hits a tree or something. But still, that’s an important clue. What about the nervous system. If you apply electricity to the body will it twitch?”

“ _Twitch_?” Septima asked turning pale. “Merlin, this is a morbid topic.”

Hermione sighed: “Septima, I know wizards think muggle medical techniques are barbaric, but they’re all we have, and we’ve done incredible things with them.” Septima winced slightly at her use of the word “we”. “Muggles have been doing this particular experiment for nearly two hundred years, and in many cases for good reasons—not that we haven’t considered the dark side of it. If you’ve ever heard of _Frankenstein_ …”

“Vaguely,” she admitted. “I don’t fully understand, Hermione, but…The answer is, I don’t know the effects of electricity on a victim of the Killing Curse, and I doubt anyone else does, either.”

“Ah. I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. But I have a lead or two that I might be able to follow—safely,” she added quickly. _Snape might know_ , she thought, _and if he doesn_ _’t, he might be willing to test it._ “I have a feeling its important. If the Killing Curse actually attacks the _brain_ —maybe even with electricity—”

“It could answer a lot of the arithmantic questions we raised last week. Yes, I can see where you’re going with this. Alright, if you can find the answer safely, go for it. Just don’t do anything…” She considered her phrasing. “…immoral.”

“Don’t worry, Septima. I won’t.”

They chatted a while longer, but a few minutes later, both witches jumped when Professor McGonagall’s amplified voice rang through the castle: _“All students are to return to their dormitories immediately. All teachers return to the staffroom.”_

Septima leapt to her feet, and Hermione immediately pointed her wand at the door: _“Atithikhula!”_

There was another shower of sparks and a sound of metal grinding, and the door opened.

“The inverse of _Lokutharmeth_ , obviously,” she explained as she followed Septima to the staffroom. There was no point in her going anywhere else as a guest, and she wanted to find out what was happening. “In undoes the seal. You can also use it against just about any locking charm there is, too, but it doesn’t unlock them; it shears through the lock and hinges and knocks the door down. But don’t spread it around. I don’t need to start a locking charm arms race on top of everything else.”

“I quite agree,” Septima said. “But I don’t like the sound of this. The school hasn’t been locked down like this since Sirius Black broke in three years ago.”

Hermione’s pulse quickened. If that was one of the reasons the teachers would lock down the castle, did that mean Harry had been caught—another technical fugitive sneaking into Hogwarts?

They arrived at the staffroom to find the other teachers quickly assembling. Professor McGonagall was crying. There must be bad news, she thought. Bill was standing in the back against the wall. He must have had the same idea she had. She raised her eyebrows at him in a silent question about Harry’s whereabouts, and Bill jerked his head in the direction of the empty space behind him. Harry must be there under his invisibility cloak.

Professor McGonagall shot Hermione an apologetic glance when she walked in. “Miss Granger, I apologise for the interruption. This does not involve you personally, but a serious emergency has come up,” she said shakily.

“If you need me to leave, Professor, I’ll leave, but if there’s something I can help you with…” she said.

“No, I don’t believe you can help Miss Granger, but there’s no point in keeping the news from you either,” McGonagall answered. She waited until all of the teachers were assembled except for Snape, then shut the door. That made Hermione even more worried. Had Snape turned traitor?

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” the Headmistress said, taking a deep breath. “I’ll get right to it. I regret to inform you that Sybill Trelawney was found dead in her apartment a short time ago.”

The teachers all gasped, and so did Hermione and Bill. The teachers would know by now not to get to attached to a Defence Professor, but aside from Dumbledore, the death of any other teacher hadn’t happened in many years. And Trelawney wasn’t old or sick or prone to dangerous activities so far as Hermione knew.

“Miss Brown, Miss Patil,” McGonagall said, and Hermione saw that Lavender and Parvati had been lurking behind the door. They came forward now, holding each other up with tears streaming down their faces. “I know this is difficult for you, but could you please tell the rest of the teachers what you saw?”

Lavender was beyond words, but Parvati slowly stuttered out their story. “W-we went to visit…P-Professor Trelawney this morning,” she said. “T-to check up on her…we’ve been doing that a lot. She hasn’t…she h-hasn’t been well…ever since she was sacked last spring. Even after she was reinstated—”

“By which you mean her drinking habit?” McGonagall asked. The two girls nodded.

“It was really b-bad when she wasn’t t-teaching,” Parvati said. “We’d find her…passed out on the floor sometimes. We…we…we f-found her like that this m-morning…except she was…c-cold…and stiff…She wasn’t breathing. We even tried healing spells, b-but…”

“My God,” Professor Sprout said. “I didn’t think she was that bad. If I knew…”

“That’s _if_ this was her own doing, Pomona,” McGonagall said. “Professor Dumbledore insisted Sybill was a target in the war. Severus and Poppy are investigating the scene now.” Hermione then noticed that Madam Pomfrey wasn’t there either. “In the meantime, Miss Patil, can you tell us anything more about how you found her? Or the state of the room? Did you see anything out of place.”

Parvati choked up and shook her head. “Nothing…nothing else w-worse than usual,” she managed. “She was…lying next to a spilt bottle, but that was it. Everything looked the same as always.”

“Only one bottle?” Professor Flitwick noted. “Did you see any others about?”

“N-no. None others that were open.”

“Did you see…Excuse me, Miss Patil, but did you see any signs of self-harm on her body?”

“No!” Lavender exclaimed, finally finding words to speak. “Nothing like that, Professor. She wouldn’t have just been…l-l-lying there like that…She looked like she just…dropped.”

“Definitely sounds like foul play, then,” Hestia Jones said, adjusting her prosthetic arm. “I hate to say this, but are you sure you trust Snape with this investigation?”

“Professor Dumbledore trusted Severus, Hestia,” McGonagall said, “and even if I weren’t as confident as he was, I trust Poppy. I only hope we can resolve this quickly. I fear what will happen if there is another threat lurking in this school.”

* * *

“Poison,” Snape declared several hours later. He and Madam Pomfrey had finished their investigation, and Lavender and Parvati were treated for shock. The lockdown hadn’t ended, but Snape sounded confident that the threat had passed. “Specifically, a poisoned bottle of mead from the Three Broomsticks. Very dark, and very fast acting. Even if a Healer had been in the room with her, her chances would not have been great. The time of death was likely shortly after she returned from the Valentine’s feast.”

“Poisoned mead? How?” the teachers asked.

“And how did it get into the castle?”

“ _That_ was the most difficult part,” Snape replied, “tracking down the origin of the bottle. I have determined that it was sent from Madam Rosmerta personally to Professor Dumbledore as a Christmas gift shortly before his death. In the shuffle after his death, Sybill got hold of it somehow.”

“Rosmerta?!” Flitwick said, aghast.

“Indeed. It is difficult to be certain, but it appears quite likely that she sent it whilst she was under the Imperius Curse.”

“Malfoy again,” Hermione scowled, and everyone looked at her. “Even dead, he’s still killing people. That’s three in a few months. Do we know if he had any other plans in motion?”

“Probably yes,” Snape admitted. “His first two assassination attempts both had very little chance of success, and he got very lucky—if you can call it that—with his third. If he was as smart as I thought he was, he will have been working on something surer.”

Hermione locked eyes with Bill, and then where she thought the still-invisible Harry was beside him. Bill shook his head subtly. No, he hadn’t found anything. And they couldn’t risk revealing that they were on to what Malfoy had been doing in the Room of Requirement. Instead, he cleared his throat and offered a more general reassurance. “I can look into it,” he said. “I’ve been coming by to look into the curse on the Defence Professorship. I’ll keep a lookout for what Malfoy was doing, too. In the meantime, you should try to track down any other dark items Malfoy might have slipped in.”

“Excellent idea, Mr. Weasley,” McGonagall said. “We should get on that presently. Bathsheda, can you make the arrangements for Sybill?” Professor Babbling nodded sadly. “We should go and break the news to the students. And Pomona, please speak to the house elves to check the rest of the pantry…Morgana, I feel like such a failure.”

“You’re not a failure, Minerva,” Professor Sprout insisted. “No one could have predicted this—”

“ _Someone_ should have stopped that poisoned mead from getting into the castle in the first place,” she said. “And Sybill—You know about the prophecy. I may not have agreed with her, but Dumbledore wanted her kept safe here. Somehow, only being able to say I kept her out of You-Know-Who’s clutches doesn’t feel like an accomplishment.”

“I know it’s hard, but we’ll just have to get by,” Sprout said sadly. “Like last time.”

The meeting broke up, and the guests started to regroup to leave, but Hermione stopped one of the teachers before he could go. “Professor Snape, could I speak with you for a moment?”

Snape turned and stared down at her with his usual disdain. “Yes?” he enquired.

“I had a question about the Killing Curse that I thought probably only you could answer,” she said. He raised an eyebrow, but didn’t interrupt her. “If a person is killed with the Killing Curse, and you shock the body with electricity, does it cause muscle twitches like it would for any other body?”

She heard a soft gasp and a scuffling sound behind her that suggested both Bill and Harry were startled by the question. Snape’s eyes widened noticeably, and he studied her with suspicion. “Do you mean to replicate Dr. Frankenstein’s experiment, or is there a productive point to this?” he demanded.

“The latter, I assure you,” she answered dryly. “I’m trying to figure out whether the Killing Curse only causes brain death or some degree of cell death. “This is for…” She hesitated. “…for the mission Dumbledore gave to Harry and me. You said you knew about it.”

“I do, Miss Granger.” Snape paused and got a far-off look in his eyes. “And you believe this study into the Killing Curse will help you?”

“Depending on what I find, it could.”

“Interesting…Not many would think to perform such an experiment, even if they were so inclined,” he said.

“Gee, I wonder why,” Bill said uncomfortably.

Hermione shot a look at him to back down. “It’s necessary,” she said.

“The Unspeakables may have done such a test, but it would be difficult to access their findings,” Snape continued. “I will look into what other options are available.”

“If nothing else, animal testing…” Hermione started, but she stopped when he gave her a withering glare. “I’ll leave it to your discretion, sir.”

“A wise choice, Miss Granger.”

* * *

“So you didn’t find anything?” Hermione asked after they left?

“No, sorry,” Bill replied. “No horcrux, and nothing that looked like an obvious secret assassination weapon of Malfoy’s, either. But it’s a big room. It’ll take a while to check it over. We’ll find the horcrux sooner or later.”

“Do you think we should check out the cave Dumbledore pointed out in the meantime?” Hermione said.

“I’d like to scout it out myself first—make sure I know the location, figure out the outer layer of protections. I might borrow your cloak for that, Harry, just in case You-Know-Who has some kind of lookouts watching the area.”

“No problem,” Harry agreed. “Do you know what Malfoy could have been working on?”

“No. Something that could plausibly have take down Dumbledore _without_ needing a lucky shot, and also took months of work? I can think of a lot of things—too many—and there are sure to be more I wouldn’t recognise.”

“There might not be an actual item, Harry,” Hermione pointed out. “If I were trying to assassinate someone who was a much stronger fighter than I am, I’d probably use the Room for testing spells, not building a weapon.”

“Malfoy wasn’t that good a spellcrafter, though,” Harry said. “I mean, he was about as good as I am, but he wasn’t _you_.”

Bill hummed and nodded: “Yeah, I’m with Harry. If Malfoy was smart, if he wanted a power advantage on Dumbledore, it would’ve _had_ to have been an artifact. But it could’ve been any of a lot of the artifacts in that Room. I’ll keep an eye out, though.”

“I guess that’s all we can do for now,” Hermione said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lokutharmeth: based on the Norse (via Icelandic) for “sealed door”.
> 
> Atithikhula: based on the Hindi for “open to guests”. The very different languages are based on the need for similar syllable patterns to Colloportus and Alohomora.


	51. Chapter 51

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: All of Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling, including the dubious case of Cormac McLaggen.
> 
> Part of the this chapter is quoted from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince.
> 
> Why did JKR introduce the Supersensory Charm in the Epilogue? An incredibly useful charm that might have saved a lot of people’s lives, and it was never so much as mentioned during the war? How does that not break the story?

The following weekend, Hermione, Harry, and Bill were back, digging through the Room of Requirement again. Hermione was dividing her time between that, Apparition lessons, and her meeting with Septima, so it was a busy day; and then, there was her discussion with Snape. After conferring with him, she decided to let Septima in on that conversation, with the understanding that she believed Hermione was merely trying to find a way to block the Killing Curse.

“I find myself surprised, Miss Granger,” Snape said. “It appears your…hunch was correct. An animal killed with the Killing Curse does _not_ twitch when exposed to electricity.”

“ _Really?_ ” Hermione said. “So it attacks the entire nervous system, then?”

“That is a likely hypothesis.”

“Okay, I understand this is an important finding,” Septima said, “but is it really that surprising.”

“It’s not where I would have expected the magic to draw the line between life and death,” Hermione said. “It’s also a difference that a muggle coroner would be able to detect if they knew what to look for.”

Septima’s eyebrows shot up: “I thought the Killing Curse was undetectable to muggles,” she said.

“Using normal techniques, it is,” Snape confirmed. “The most curious feature of the Killing Curse from a muggle perspective is the lack of a discernible cause of death.”

“But a muggle who knew where to look would notice something was up,” Hermione said. “With the right equipment, they might even be able to figure out…well, whatever it actually does. I don’t know—maybe it destroys the ability of the nerve cells to conduct electricity?”

“Fortunately, such an event is unlikely and easily dealt with,” Snape countered.

Septima nodded awkwardly: “I suppose so. And you were right about one thing, Hermione: that will definitely make it easier to analyse the arithmancy—and I suppose it explains why it the curse only works on animals.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “Does it?” she asked. “Does it work on sea sponges? Or jellyfish?”

“ _Jellyfish?_ ” Snape said incredulously. “Is there a point to such an inane experiment, Miss Granger? Contrary to popular belief, I do not enjoy using such dark magic, even on animals.”

“Well, not as much as the electricity test, but it would clarify the limits of the spell. Jellyfish have a nervous system, but no brain. I might be able to find a more useful test, though. I can get back to you later.”

“I see. I will consider it, Miss Granger,” Snape said reluctantly, “but I suggest you apply yourself to more practical matters.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Professor.”

* * *

“Happy birthday, Ron,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, thanks.”

“Is something wrong?” she said worriedly.

“It’d be happier if they hadn’t cancelled the Hogsmeade visit,” Ron grumbled.

“It’s too dangerous, Ron. Frankly, I’m a little surprised the school is still able to operate.”

“Yeah, I guess. But that’s not even the worst part.”

“It’s not?” Hermione said. “What is?”

“With Harry gone, I’m the new Quidditch captain.”

Hermione blinked in confusion: “Um…are you feeling alright, Ron? How is that a bad thing?”

“Oh, it’s great—except I have to be fair in replacing him.”

“So? Was Ginny not good enough? Or did she not want to play Seeker?”

“Neither. Guess who was the best Chaser to replace Ginny?”

She thought for a minute, but she wasn’t familiar with who in Gryffindor were good Quidditch players who weren’t already on the team. “Who?” she asked.

“Cormac McLaggen.”

“Ohhh…” she said. All the girls in Gryffindor knew McLaggen—and not favourably. “Sorry. I guess he _is_ an arse. But I’m sure you’ll do alright in the match. Anyway, I got you this.” She handed him a wrapped package.

Ron opened the wrapping to find an unfamiliar book with a rocket ship pointed at Earth on the cover. “What the heck is this?” he said.

“ _The Moon is a Harsh Mistress_ by Robert A. Heinlein,” she explained. “It’s a muggle story about fighting a revolution on the Moon. I know a lot of it doesn’t apply to us, but it has a lot of interesting thoughts about strategy and such that I think would be up your alley. If you get confused by anything, just ask Dean.”

“Oh, sure, stick _me_ with him,” Dean spoke up from down the table, but he laughed just the same.

* * *

It was still having that book and the problem of communication on her mind that led her to consider again the methods she had to send messages securely. And while she didn’t have any new ideas, Hermione realised there was one particular area where she was lacking.

“Arthur,” she said one evening, “could you help me with something? I’ve realised there’s some spell-work I’ve been neglecting.”

“There is?” he said. “I’ll help if I can, Hermione. What are you working on?”

“Could you teach me how to send messages with the Patronus Charm?”

He smiled at her: “Of course. Honestly, you probably should have learnt it already if the Order were still functioning properly. It’s a clever little modification of Dumbledore’s. Look here.” He drew his wand and waved it in a way that wasn’t obviously different from the regular Patronus Charm. “The incantation is _Expecto Nuntium._ ”

 _That makes sense_ , Hermione thought. _“I await a messenger” instead of “I await a guardian.”_

“Once you cast the messenger spell, you just need to focus on the message you want to send and whom you want to send it to. You don’t have to say it out loud, although it helps.”

Hermione practised the incantation a few times and successfully cast the Messenger Charm. It produced the same spirit otter she still produced every night for practise, but instead of frolicking around her, it watched her intently, waiting for a message.

“Er…Tell Mrs. Weasley, ‘The eagle flies at midnight,’” she said.

The Patronus flew off to the kitchen. A moment later, there was a brief shout, followed by Mrs. Weasley’s voice calling, “Oh, honestly, Hermione.”

Arthur laughed. “I think you’ve got it, Hermione,” he said. “You can also send the same message to multiple people if you need to.”

“Really?” Hermione said in surprise. “Can you cast multiple regular Patronuses, too?”

Arthur tilted his head an thought for a minute: “Well, I suppose you could, but it’s usually not necessary against dementors if you can fight them off at all.”

Hermione remembered back to when she’d seen Dumbledore cast a Patronus against an army of dementors. That had been one Patronus that could repel them from a long range. You’d only need multiples if you needed to herd them somewhere singlehanded from some reason, which would be pretty unlikely.

* * *

“I found something,” Bill announced.

“You found the horcrux?” Harry said hopefully? He and Hermione rushed to his side.

“No, but I think I might’ve found what Malfoy was working on in here. And even if it’s not, it’s dangerous to have around here.” He motioned to a large wooden cabinet in front of him.

“This?” Hermione said. “What is it?”

“It’s a Vanishing Cabinet,” Bill explained. “It’s an obscure way to connect two locations—sort of like the Floo network, but it can only connect two specific locations. The important thing is, it’s nearly impossible to ward against—like your mirrors, Harry. There’s a good chance Hogwarts’ wards won’t block it. They’re too rare to bother with.”

“So someone could sneak into Hogwarts from anywhere?” Harry said worriedly.

“If they had the other cabinet, yes.”

“Then this _must_ be it,” Harry said. “When Malfoy went to Borgin and Burkes, he said to hold onto _the other one_. What if he was trying to let Death Eaters into the school?”

“Wait—Wait a minute,” Hermione said. “Bill, how do you know this is what Malfoy was working on? If he had this, why wouldn’t he have done it before.”

“He couldn’t. It’s broken. I think he was trying to fix it. Look.” He ran his finger across the exposed top of the cabinet. It came away nearly clean. “Almost no dust. It’s been handled recently. And the runes show signs of amateurish repair work.”

That made it quite a bit more convincing, Hermione thought. All the pieces fit, and it would have been a devastating attack if the Death Eaters had been able to catch Dumbledore by surprise in his own school, where he had to protect his students. In fact, it still could be.

“Does anyone else know about this?” Harry said, echoing her thoughts. “I mean, Borgin knows _something_. And…when I overheard Malfoy, he said Greyback was in on it. Maybe we should get it out of here in case someone else tries to fix it.”

“But why would they?” said Bill. “The only targets here were you and Dumbledore, and you’re both gone now.”

“There’s plenty of reasons, Bill,” Hermione said. “Kill all the Order members in the school.”

“Get rid of McGonagall and put the Death Eaters in charge,” Harry suggested.

“Take the school hostage and demand all of You-Know-Who’s enemies surrender,” she added.

“Okay, okay, I get it,” Bill said. “Yeah, it would be safer to get rid of it. But if we do, and someone _is_ trying to repair it, they’ll know we’ve been in here.”

Hermione deflated. “Oh, right,” she said. “We can’t risk what we know about the Room getting out.”

“Can we smash it and make it look like an accident?” asked Harry.

Bill looked around at the piles of junk. “We could try, but it’s risky…” he said slowly. “It might be better to watch it from week to week. I doubt a student would be able to repair one of these that fast.”

“Malfoy was spending all his time here, though,” Harry pointed out.

“I’ll keep an eye out with my Map,” Hermione said. “Not many people come down the corridor outside. It won’t be hard to see who comes in here daily.”

“Good. Do that,” Bill said. “If you see anyone, we’ll take more action.”

* * *

The Quidditch match between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff was the next morning, and the trio (though it was officially the duo) went out to the pitch to watch in solidarity. It was rare to have guests for a Quidditch match, but not unheard of. Professor McGonagall let them up into the staff box, giving a pointed look to the empty space where Harry was standing as she did. Hermione wondered if she had heard him or was just guessing he was there. Snape glared in their direction too, but didn’t say anything.

There was one other student in the staff box today: a familiar, dreamy, blond girl.

“Hello, Hermione, friends,” Luna said, looking at all three of them in turn.

Hermione sighed. Did _everyone_ know Harry was here today? “Hi, Luna. What are you doing here?”

“Professor McGonagall asked me to commentate on today’s match.”

Hermione turned and gave McGonagall an incredulous look. She had a feeling the Headmistress would regret this.

McGonagall shrugged her shoulders. “Miss Weasley recommended her,” she said. “And I’m sure she’ll be an improvement over Zacharias Smith.”

Hermione remembered that match. Smith had spent half his time at the microphone insulting Harry. She supposed Luna _would_ be better, but she couldn’t help but wonder if Ginny was playing a prank on the school.

Down on the pitch, Ron shook hands with the Hufflepuff Captain, and they took to the air.

_“And that’s Smith of Hufflepuff with the Quaffle,” said a dreamy voice, echoing over the grounds. “He did the commentary last time, of course, and Ginny Weasley flew into him, I think probably on purpose, it looked like it. Smith was being quite rude about Gryffindor, I expect he regrets that now he’s playing them—oh, look, he’s lost the Quaffle, Ginny took it from him, I do like her, she’s very nice…”_

Professor McGonagall raised an eyebrow and stared at Luna with an uncomfortable look on her face. Clearly, she was already having second thoughts. Hermione could hear Harry trying not to laugh beside her.

_“…but now that big Hufflepuff player’s got the Quaffle from her. I can’t remember his name, it’s something like Bibble—no, Buggins—”_

_“It’s Cadwallader!” said Professor McGonagall loudly from beside Luna. The crowd laughed._

Hermione smacked her forehead. Luna might be…entertaining, but she clearly didn’t have a clue what she was doing. At least she knew all of the Gryffindor players’ names. Katie Bell and Demelza Robins were good, but Cormac McLaggen was the weak link on the Chaser Squad—not because he was a bad flier—Hermione had seen enough Quidditch in her time to know he was a quite good one—but because he was a piss-poor team player. He berated Ginny for losing the Quaffle and missed an easy interception himself. He tried to tell everyone else how to do their jobs, and he spent a lot of time arguing with Ron. Hermione caught a snippet of their quarrel when they flew by.

“—should’ve switched positions with me, Weasley. Just because Potter made you Keeper—”

“I’m Captain now, and I say you’re on Chaser—”

Hufflepuff was soon winning on points despite Zacharias Smith being a mediocre player himself. Not that many of the people in the stadium could figure that out. A sports enthusiast Luna was not, and she seemed to think the crowd would be more interested in studying the clouds or the possibility that Smith was suffering from “Loser’s Lurgy”.

Most unfortunately, Ron took this last remark to be a hilarious joke, and at the same moment, McLaggen, who was trying to tell Peakes how to hit a Bludger, mis-hit the iron ball and sent it flying straight at Ron. Ron, who was more accustomed to having to catch balls rather than dodge them, was caught by surprise and almost took it straight in the chest, but he turned aside at the last moment and took it in his left arm instead. Even with his Keeper’s padding, Hermione could hear bone breaking from where she sat.

 _“Ron!”_ Bill yelled.

 _“Foul!”_ she shouted. “What happens if you foul your own team?”

“I dunno. No one’s been stupid enough to do that at any game I’ve seen. Is he alright?”

Ron was still on his broom, but he called a time out. The team flew down to the ground, where a brawl quickly broke out between McLaggen and Ginny, who tried to hex him. Peakes and Coote pulled them apart, but it quickly turned into a four-way shouting match between Ron, Ginny, McLaggen, and the rest of the team about what to do next.

“They’re gonna want Ron to leave,” Bill said. “Gryffindor can still win if Ginny’s fast enough.”

“Ron probably wants McLaggen out instead,” Harry whispered. “Wouldn’t be a great loss, either.”

“You don’t just send someone off in Quidditch, though,” Bill countered.

As the time out ended, however, it finished with a stare-down between Ron and Katie. Finally, Katie used her wand, which was allowed on the ground, and cast a spell that, from Ron’s cry of pain, must have mended his broken arm. Then, all seven of them took to the air again, although Ginny gave McLaggen an audible warning that she’d hex him into next week if he stepped out of line again.

“Well, that was exciting,” Luna said cheerfully, prompting some uncomfortable laughs from the spectators.

“The stupid, stubborn idiot,” Bill grumbled. “That won’t be mended properly. He’s gonna break his arm again and put himself in the Hospital Wing doing that.”

“Oh, you can bet your arse on that, Mr. Weasley,” said an angry Madam Pomfrey. “I have half a mind to give Miss Bell a detention for going along with that.”

“Our Mum’ll have a fit if she finds out.”

“I won’t tell her if you won’t,” Hermione told him, and he nodded. If Ron let it slip on his own, she thought, he’ll have made his own bed.

With Ron injured and McLaggen on notice, Gryffindor was even less effective, and Hufflepuff ran up the score. Luckily, Ginny was nearly as good a Seeker as she was a Chaser, and she caught the Snitch at the last minute, giving Gryffindor a win at 220 to 210.

However, Katie’s amateur fix had failed by the time Ron got back, and sure enough, he wound up in the Infirmary with a magically-aggravated broken arm afterwards. Hermione, Bill, and their invisible friend visited him before they left for the day.

“Sorry about your arm, Ron,” Hermione said. “At least you won, though.”

“Yeah. But I’d like to eliminate that McLaggen,” he growled.

“Well, you’re the Captain. You can kick him off the team if you want.”

“Oh I’m already gonna do that. I meant _eliminate out nearest airlock_ ,” he said with a fake Russian accent. “Isn’t that what Mannie would do?”

Bill was confused, but Hermione giggled: “You’ve been reading the book I gave you?”

“Yeah. Slow, though. I barely understand a lick of it, but what I do understand is pretty cool.”

“I’m glad you like it. Maybe I can introduce you to something a little easier later. I’ve just been thinking a lot about space lately when I’ve had time.”

* * *

Comet Hale-Bopp continued to draw nearer in March. It was climbing higher in the sky at morning, now nearly a hand-span above the horizon at dawn, shining at second magnitude in Cygnus. She’d begun to hear wizards murmuring darkly about it from day to day, the foreboding increasing further. For Hermione, however, it had the opposite effect. Unfettered by superstition (however much the late Professor Trelawney claimed it was justified), she was entranced by its cold beauty, especially viewed through her telescope. She’d taken to rising early in the mornings to watch it from Muriel’s garden. It felt like the closest thing she had to an escape from the war.

The comet was bright compared with most comets, which rarely even became naked-eye objects, but it was set to become far more spectacular soon. It was headed for a perihelion on the first of April, after which it would swing around to the evening sky and quite possibly become the brightest comet in her lifetime.

But there were still limits to what she could see. The night sky was never what one could call bright. Not for the first time, Hermione cursed her human eyes as she gazed up at a moonless predawn sky one chilly March morning. They were just too inefficient! It took half a dozen photons to get a response out of a rod cell in the eye, and that was under ideal conditions. And worse, basic physics said you could never actually make the night sky _brighter_. Otherwise, you could focus light back on its source at a higher intensity than the source itself and add energy to it, which violated the laws thermodynamics. She’d been heartbroken when, some years ago, she learnt that it was physically impossible to see the beautiful colours and shapes in astronomical photos as anything more than pale reflections, no matter how large her telescope.

But Comet Hale-Bopp had renewed her determination to find a loophole in the laws of thermodynamics. She’d had a taste of it before when they drank Night Vision Potions in Astronomy class, but she wanted to do better. Therefore, she took a small break from her regular projects to pay a visit not to Septima, as usual, but to Professor Sinistra, to outline her problem.

“I’m sorry, Miss Granger, but the Night Vision Potion is really the best we have,” Sinistra told her. “Believe me, it’s disappointing, but there’s not much you can do—not for the faint end of things like you want.”

“But what about Supersensory Charms, Professor?” she asked. “Those sound like they could help.”

“Well…yes, I suppose it would provide a small advantage, but not for what you specifically want it to do. The Supersensory Charm is really misnamed. It doesn’t enhance your senses; it enhances your _perceptions_ —increases contrast, draws your attention to things you wouldn’t notice, like faint noises behind you or objects in your peripheral vision. But it doesn’t increase your sensitivity. Otherwise, you’d be blinded and deafened trying to use it in daylight. It’s an incredibly powerful spell—magic you’d expect to need a potion for—but it will only make the stars you can already see appear brighter and clearer. It won’t help you see fainter stars.”

“Oh…” That wasn’t completely useless, but not quite what she wanted. “Well, I was afraid of that,” she said, “but I had an idea of my own, Professor. You see, the way light behaves…well, you’re up on muggle astronomy. Are you familiar with photons?”

“I’m not sure I’m as knowledgeable as you are, but yes, I know what they are.”

Hermione outlined her idea to her. It turned out Sinistra _didn_ _’t_ know the minutiae of how the eye worked, but as she explained more of it, the woman became more and more amazed.

“So that’s it, Professor,” she said. “I just wasn’t sure if it would work or if I’d need to use a potion or something.”

“That’s…that’s really brilliant, Miss Granger,” Sinistra answered. “And I…don’t see any reason why it wouldn’t work. But this is out of my league. You’ll have to talk to Flitwick and Vector for this—and probably Madam Pomfrey for the testing.”

* * *

“I want to take advantage of the fact that the human retina is basically wired backwards—the light-sensing cells at the back. I’ve already done quite a lot with altering the optical properties of various media. What I want to do is change the retina into a frequency-dependent nonuniform refractive medium that funnels all of the photons down the nerve axons like optical fibres, directly onto the photopigment molecules so that none of them are wasted. Normally, only about ten percent of photons at best are actually detected by the eye. Ideally, this will increase it to near one hundred percent, improving night vision tenfold.”

Septima, Professor Flitwick, and Madam Pomfrey were all speechless when Hermione finished. It would be hard and would need all three of them. A charm that was meant to have such a fine, detailed effect on the human body would need more than arithmancy to get right. But it really sounded like it would work.

“Merlin’s beard!” Flitwick broke the silence. “That really is ingenious, Miss Granger. I do believe it would be possible, though extremely difficult. I haven’t seen a charms puzzle this complicated in a long time. Definitely worth a paper. I would need to see some of your other optical charms to determine where to begin.”

“If you want to do that for all four photoreceptors in the eye, you’ll need four separate spells for the different wavelength ranges,” Septima pointed out.

“I’ll start with the rod cells,” Hermione said. “It’ll be black and white, but those are the most important. Madam Pomfrey, what do you think? Can we make it work?”

Madam Pomfrey continued to study the equations and diagrams on the blackboard. “You may want to talk to a professional Healer, Miss Granger,” she said. “If I understand these optical spells correctly, I don’t think it would harm the eye directly, but exposure to bright light could cause serious damage.”

“Well, that’s not surprising, but not a problem. So do you think we can make this work? I’d really like to have it ready by the end of April, considering the observing opportunities.”

“Hm, that would be a bit tight,” Flitwick said, “but if you’re prepared to put in the effort, I think we can make it happen so long as nothing catastrophic between now and then.”

 _The bulk of my work is stalled until we find the horcruxes anyway,_ Hermione thought grimly. “I think I can find the time,” she answered.

* * *

“George?”

“Yeah?”

“Your birthday is coming up, and I know you and Fred have a big sale planned for April Fool’s Day, but I was wondering if you’d like to go out on a breakfast date before the shop opens—you know, go out and watch the sunrise. My treat.”

“A breakfast date?” George said in surprise. “Huh, that’s different—never been on one of those before…Yes, I’d love to, Hermione.”

Hermione squealed girlishly and kissed him.

* * *

When the first of April rolled around, however, George was singing a different tune—mainly because of the hour of the morning. “You said breakfast date, Hermione,” he grunted. “You didn’t say traipse out onto a deserted moor before daylight.”

“I said watch the sunrise,” she told him. “I wanted to surprise you with this. Have you seen Comet Hale-Bopp yet.”

“I think I’d heard there _was_ a comet,” he offered. “Normal people don’t get up this early.”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “I wanted you to see it. It’s probably going to be the brightest comet since Comet West in 1976. And today’s a special day. It’s at perihelion today—you know, when it’s closest to the Sun?”

George stared her with an uncomfortable look that made her nervous. “So…you got me up at five in the morning to see a _comet_?” he said slowly. “Is this an April Fool’s prank? Because this is one of the weirdest things you’ve ever done.”

“Excuse me?” she said indignantly. “I burnt my eyebrows off with thermite. I made a whole book of spells on rearranging molecules. I taught my muggle parents how to make potions. And _this_ is weird?”

“Um, _yeah_. Comets are bad omens, Hermione. I didn’t take Divination, and even I know that. Why would you go out of your way to see it? I don’t know that I’d bother going out in the evening to see it after we both took five years of Astronomy Class.”

Hermione opened her mouth and shut it again. She turned away, wrapping her arms around herself. She felt a hollow feeling in her chest. She’d so wanted to make today special for him, but now, she realised too late she’d designed the whole date around her own interests. She felt so stupid.

“Hermione?” George said worriedly, but she didn’t answer. “Hermione, what’s wrong…? Look, I’m sorry. That was harsh.” He walked up behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder, but she jerked away. “Hermione, please talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” she said softly.

“Huh?”

“This was stupid. This was _my_ dream date, not yours. I should’ve known you wouldn’t…” She choked off again.

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” he assured her. He wrapped an arm around her, and she let him this time. “I’ve got you. And I’ve got Fred and all the mayhem we could want back at the shop. I can tell you wanted this to be special. I just don’t _get_ it.”

“I…” she started, still not looking at him. “It’s been a long time since I’ve felt this much culture shock with the wizarding world, George. As much as Professor Sinistra tries to bridge the gap, we see astronomy so differently. I’ve told you, muggles don’t believe comets are bad omens anymore. They’re too easy to predict and track. We just think they’re pretty. And most of us never take an astronomy course either, so we like going out on our own. We don’t worry about aspects and star signs anymore, and I still don’t, whatever Professor Trelawney said. I just like to watch the stars. To muggles, going out to an isolated place to look at the stars is romantic, especially if there’s something special like a comet or a meteor shower going on.”

George turned her around and kissed her, holding her close to his chest. “I’m sorry, Hermione,” he said. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You set all this up for me, and I went and accused you of pulling a prank. It’s wonderful that you did all this. I just didn’t understand.”

“But I meant what I said: it’s your day—”

He cut her off: “And I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend it with. So tell me about this comet.”

She grinned and pointed it out to him, low in the eastern sky. This was about the last morning it would be easily visible. She’d packed her telescope and Omnioculars in her handbag so they could get a closer look. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t have been good viewing conditions for her Night Vision Charm even if it were ready—too close to dawn plus the third-quarter moon near its apex. Still, there would be some very good conditions in the evening around new moon in about a week and again in a month’s time.

Hermione was excited to talk about something non-magical that she nonetheless could really sink her teeth into, although she noticed George’s eyes started to glaze over as she waxed poetic about the science of comets—what they were made of, how their shape arose, why Comet Hale-Bopp had two tails, and things like that. She blushed when she saw she was starting to lose him and stopped. “Sorry,” she squeaked. “I guess this isn’t a very romantic subject for you.”

“Well, it’s kinda weirdly interesting, but I’d be lying if I said it was romantic—but I love seeing the light dancing in your eyes when you talk about it.”

Hermione blushed much harder and kissed George for lack of other options.

“So is that another muggle thing?” he asked when he recovered. “Getting so excited about astronomy?”

“No, more like a scientist thing—er, an arithmancer thing, you might say. I’m an arithmancer, but in muggle terms, I’d be a scientist, and scientists can get like that…It’s hard to describe…I expect it’s kind of like you feel when you invent new pranks.”

“Ah,” he said with a smile. “Something we don’t get to do often enough together. So that’s how you feel about…” He waved at the sky vaguely.

“More than that: about figuring things out,” she clarified. “It’s hard to understand if you’re not steeped in it from a young age, even for muggles. A lot of people don’t think it’s romantic at all.”

“I don’t think that,” George said quickly.

“No, but most of my other friends probably do. It’s a cultural thing…You know, Carl Sagan wrote something a few years ago that explains it better than I could.” She cleared her throat and tried to emulate Sagan’s slow, even tone: “‘It is sometimes said that scientists are unromantic, that their passion to figure out robs the world of beauty and mystery. But is it not stirring to understand how the world actually works—that white light is made of colours, that colour is the way we perceive the wavelengths of light, that transparent air reflects light, that in so doing it discriminates among the waves, and that the sky is that the sky is blue for the same reason that the sunset is red? It does no harm to the romance of the sunset—’ Or the sun- _rise_ —” She motioned to where the sky was growing bright in the east. “‘—to know a little bit about it.’”

George was staring at her in surprise by the end of that speech, like he was seeing her for the first time. Then, he snapped out of it. “Wait, the sky is blue for the same reason the sunset is red?” he said.

Hermione smacked her forehead, shaking her head, but she laughed just the same.

“I’m kidding,” he grinned. “Sounds like that Carl guy really knew his stuff. I think I understand why you did all this a lot better now.”

“Thank you, George,” she said. That was one of the things she liked most about him. Even when he didn’t understand something, he was adaptable and quick on the uptake.

“Come on. Let’s watch the sunrise, and you can tell me all about it,” he said. She leaned against him, and they sat on a conjured blanket on the grass. “Say, when did you say that Comet West thing was?” he asked.

“1976.”

“See? It _was_ a bad omen! That’s when Percy was born!”

“Oh, George.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Expecto Nuntium: Latin for “I await a messenger.”


	52. Chapter 52

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Comet Hale-Bopp belongs to Alan Hale and Thomas Bopp…That’s how it works, right?

_COMET BRINGS DEATH TO MUGGLES_

_39 COMMIT MASS SUICIDE IN AMERICA_

 

Hermione was shocked when she saw the headline in the _Daily Prophet_. Normally, she wouldn’t have believed it. Stories in the _Prophet_ , however distorted, often had some kernel of truth to them, but she wouldn’t be surprised if they invented a story about muggles out of whole cloth, especially from overseas.

Still, she wanted to be sure. She didn’t have much contact with the muggle world these days, and the other muggle-borns she talked to mostly only had contact through letters. So she slipped away to a muggle library to try to find a reliable source. She went out of her way to find some back issues of the _New York Times_ , and she was horrified to see it was all true, right there on the front page:

 

_VIDEOTAPES LEFT BY 39 WHO DIED_

_DESCRIBED CULT_ _’S SUICIDE GOAL_

_The 39 men and women found dead in a mass suicide at an estate here were members of an obscure computer-related cult who left behind videotapes describing their intentions, and they appeared to believe that the Hale-Bopp comet now streaking across the sky was their ticket to heaven._

_…_

_A site on the World Wide Web, called Heaven_ _’s Gate, and apparently created by the cult, makes repeated references to a Do and his deputy, Ti. In effusive language, the page celebrates the presence of the Hale-Bopp comet as “the ‘marker’ we’ve been waiting for—the time for the arrival of the spacecraft from the Level Above Human to take us home to ‘Their World’—in the literal heavens.”_

 

It had taken nearly two weeks for the story to filter through to the magical world. When it finally did, the wizards described it in even more lurid terms than the muggles did. It played perfectly into the almost Victorian apocalyptic fixation of wizarding Britain today. For the next few days, it seemed to be all anyone was talking about when she slipped out to Hogwarts or Diagon Alley, and they feared the comet even more as a dread omen. To Hermione, though, it felt like a punch in the gut. To have astronomy, something that she so loved—that was an escape for her—marred by such tragedy felt awful, not to mention that it played into the same astrological nonsense in Britain that probably partially contributed to the suicides in the first place.

But there wasn’t anything she could do about that. She just had to keep going. She wasn’t going to let it stop her from continuing her work on her Night Vision Charm, which was now ready for testing. She hoped things would quiet down by the time it came time to actually use it in her planned visits to Professor Sinistra’s Astronomy Classes.

* * *

Hermione did receive one bit of good, if morbid news when she next went to Hogwarts.

“Did you still want the results of those tests of the Killing Curse you asked for, Miss Granger?” Snape asked.

Hermione perked up at once. “You actually did the animal tests?” she said.

“I did. Upon further consideration, I decided to trust you that it was relevant to your _mission_. It was merely a matter of acquiring the animals without suspicion.”

“Thank you so much, Professor,” Hermione said. “What did you find?”

“The jellyfish died. The the man o’ war died in its entirety, despite its colonial nature. However, the _Pyrosoma atlanticum_ —and you _owe_ me for the effort it took to find that one—died only in a cylindrical section marking the path of the spell. And most interestingly, the sea sponge exploded when the curse struck it like a plant would. I was most surprised to find that some of the fragments were still alive. Did you expect that to happen?”

“I thought it was a possibility,” Hermione answered. “Sponges barely count as animals anyway, and they can regenerate from tiny fragments, so they might be better regarded as some kind of sub-animals for this discussion. Anyway, that proves the Killing Curse almost certainly targets the nervous system. The man o’ war’s nervous system is connected, but the pyrosome’s isn’t, and the sponge doesn’t have one.”

Snape was unimpressed: “That is all well and good, but do you really think that will help you destroy a horcrux?”

She shook her head: “A regular horcrux, probably not, but solving _Harry_ _’s_ problem? It could be just the clue I need. And I still want to see if I can find a way to block the curse.”

“I see. I suspect you are on a fool’s errand, Miss Granger, but I have long since learnt not to underestimate you.”

“Um…thank you, Professor…I think.”

* * *

The first round of Apparition tests were held on the twenty-first of April, when about two-thirds of the sixth-years would be of age to take them. Two more tests would be held before the end of the school year for those who came of age later or who failed the first test. Harry obviously wasn’t of age, but he wouldn’t have been able to show his face anyway. However, he had confided to Hermione that Sirius had been teaching him how to Apparate in secret so that he would know how to do it—although he wasn’t making great progress. Hermione would have objected, seeing as it was both dangerous and illegal, but neither of those things were a big consideration right now, and he _was_ being appropriately supervised.

Hermione joined in with the other test-takers to get her Side-Along Apparition certification. She didn’t talk to many people. Her only close friend who was there in Hogsmeade was Ron, but she had a nice chat with him—and then, a not so nice one when he handed her a smudged, blotchy letter.

“What’s this?” she asked.

“Hagrid wanted me to give it to you. Apparently, his giant, hairy spider friend died, and he wants his other friends to be there for the burial tonight.” Ron looked terrified at the very thought.

“Giant spider friend?” she said. She knew about Aragog. An acromantula, it had to be, and there were just so many things wrong with that.

“Yeah, I know. I’d’ve just as well never known about it,” Ron agreed.

“I don’t know if I can stay that late, especially on a weekday,” she said. “Security’s a lot tighter at night.”

“I’m just passing it along,” he said. “I’m doing everything I can to stay out of it. I told Luna about it. She’d probably appreciate it more.”

“Yes, that’s true,” she agreed. She looked down at the letter. It was stained in great blotches from Hagrid’s heavy tears. He sounded absolutely devastated by it. Part of her thought he was mental, especially for asking her and Ron out on the castle grounds after dark, but another part of her really appreciated Hagrid for his ability to love any creature, no matter how hideous. It was a trait that Luna shared, she thought. She _would_ be a good fit to comfort Hagrid during the burial. Hermione didn’t exactly care for acromantulas herself, but they were still sentient creatures who were marginalised as savage beasts (though admittedly, they did eat people), and Aragog deserved a proper burial because of that. But even though she felt some respect for the creature and compassion for Hagrid, and even some morbid curiosity at seeing a real acromantula, she really didn’t think she could go. Things were just too dangerous these days.

The Side-Along Apparition test was very similar to the regular Apparition test: a worryingly short test riding on a single Apparition, although this time, there were Healers standing by in case she splinched her passenger. Over the weeks, she had progressed from the rag-doll to a dressmaker’s dummy, to a suit of armour, and finally, a full-weight, pose-able, wooden mannequin that weighed more than she did. At the same time, she changed her own pose from a tight hug to a side-hug, to linking arms, to just holding hands at the end. Only when she could Side-Along the full-weight mannequin perfectly was she allowed to try it with humans, and by then, it didn’t seem very hard, even if it _was_ an emergency measure that took a look of concentration.

One quick jaunt, and she’d successfully Apparated a live human by the hand, and she received her new license. When she did, a thought occurred to her that hadn’t the last time: that perhaps the lessons themselves were part of the test. The instructors were the testers, after all, and they would know whether they were ready to take the test based on their performance in the lessons. Of course, even then, some people failed.

“Half an eyebrow,” Ron complained. “I left half an eyebrow behind. Like that’s going to matter!”

“I know it sounds harsh, Ronald,” she tried to calm him, “but it was on your _face_. You read the pamphlets. A mistake like that can be worse than leaving a whole hand or foot behind.”

Ron kept grumbling, but he didn’t argue the point. It was embarrassing, but it wasn’t like he needed it for another two months. Hermione thought he was in more of a bad mood from Hagrid’s request than failing the test. She scribbled down a polite apology for not being able to attend the burial for Ron to send back to him.

She didn’t hear back directly, but Ginny’s next letter to her, sent through Dobby, was very amusing:

 

_Ron owes me big time. Luna roped me into going to Hagrid_ _’s “funeral” for a giant spider, and I_ _ had _ _to go because I_ _’ve got the Marauder’s Map. The thing was the size of an elephant! It was dead, and I’m still having nightmares._

* * *

Not long afterwards, Hermione’s Night Vision Charm was finally done, and it was more beautiful than she had dreamed.

In consultation with Professor Sinistra, two special Astronomy sessions were planned to introduce the students of third year and up to the spell. These sessions were scheduled for Saturday and Sunday night—or technically Sunday and Monday morning—of the last weekend of April. It wasn’t an ideal time. It was a balancing act between the loss of true night with the rapidly retreating sunset at that far northern latitude, and the stubbornly inconvenient phase of the Moon. There were only four or five days when it would be possible to observe the comet in _full_ darkness, and even that was still near the horizon. But nonetheless, the view of the whole sky with that charm was magnificent beyond words.

The first night was the night for the fifth-years and the few N.E.W.T. students. Hermione greeted the class along with Professors Sinistra and Flitwick, who had also joined them. Some of them knew her from Dumbledore’s Army, and many of them were aware of her guest-teaching the younger students’ Defence classes last term, so they were interested in what she had to say.

“Good evening,” she told them. “For those of you who don’t know, my name is Hermione Granger. I’m a certified arithmancer, and Professor Sinistra has graciously agreed to let me come out and help teach a special session of your Astronomy classes. You’ve probably been watching Comet Hale-Bopp in class all month by now.” She motioned to the comet, which had brightened to a lovely magnitude -1 with a long dust tail that stretched far up from the horizon. “I’m here because I wanted to give you a chance to observe it and the sky in general better than is normally possibly with the instruments we have here.

“You should also be familiar with the Night Vision Potion you use occasionally in this class. I have been working with Professor Flitwick and a few of the other teachers to develop a Night Vision _Charm_ that complements the potion and greatly enhances your night vision, and we wanted to try it with you.”

The students seemed eager. A few of them didn’t sound fond of the idea, and a few more were grumbling about spending so much time on the comet, but most of them wanted to see this almost as much as Hermione did.

“I warn you,” Professor Sinistra spoke up, “this spell makes you even more sensitive to bright light than the potion does, and yet more so by using them together. Exposure to intense light, even moonlight, could cause you serious problems, so I want no funny business while we’re up here, and make sure to cancel the spell before you go back inside. I advise you not to attempt to cast it on yourselves, but if you _insist_ , you should only do so in truly dark conditions.”

The students agreed to this, and Hermione, Sinistra, and Flitwick went around and began casting the spell on each of the students whilst handing out the Night Vision Potions.

 _“Akhtarroshan,”_ Hermione cast carefully on one student after another, moving through the complicated wand movements with precision. Each of them gasped when the spell took effect. “Now, this spell doesn’t work quite as well as it could on your colour vision,” she noted. “It’s designed just for light sensitivity. We’re working on one that works specifically on colour vision, but it’s much more complicated. The subtleties of the perception of light and colour with the human eye are—well, they’re beyond the scope of this discussion. If I tried to do it now, it would sort of work, but it wouldn’t look at all natural.”

Most of the students were too busy staring at the sky to pay attention, and Hermione chuckled to herself. She was sure the spell would be a big hit when it reached the journals, too. They didn’t feel too bad about publishing the spell—or rather an outline of how it was created. (They were still looking into royalties.) It was enough information that a skilled arithmancer could recreate it and possibly use it against her. But that wasn’t too bad since she also knew its weakness.

They didn’t have too much time before moonrise, so she got right to it and cast the charm herself and also drank the potion. Then, she looked up, and it was all she could do not to fall flat on her back in ecstasy.

_Thump!_

And there went the first student. She wasn’t surprised to hear that it was Colin Creevey. The muggle-borns would be more prone to that reaction. She admitted she was a little worried about Luna, but the little Ravenclaw was still on her feet, almost floating, transfixed by the sight. For once, Hermione completely understood how she felt.

It was the first time Hermione had tried her charm with the Night Vision Potion, which locked in the eyes’ dark adaptation and magically dilated the pupils, and she was lost in the beauty. Under normal conditions, even with dark skies, it was possible to see only about five thousand stars from the Astronomy Tower, but now, with her night vision enhanced right up to the limits of the laws of optics, she could see well over a hundred thousand. Even the Milky Way was no longer a mere cloud, but a luminous band of jewels twinkling across the northern horizon. Comet Hale-Bopp was a brilliant blue and white flame. Mars was so bright it was almost painful to her eye.

When she got her telescope out, she was gone. The sky was so bright that she could pick out star clusters and galaxies at a glance, and she jumped from one to another so fast she was oblivious to everything else. The Double Cluster, the Great Cluster of Hercules, the Whirlpool Galaxy, the Pinwheel Galaxy, Bode’s Galaxy, the Cigar Galaxy, the Ring Nebula, and more. Even supernova remnant were visible. The Veil Nebula was easy, and she even managed to pick out Cassiopeia A. In Cygnus, she could clearly see the shape of the North America Nebula, the brightest star-forming region in the limited part of the galaxy she could see—never more than a faint fuzzy patch to the unassisted eye.

Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end, and Hermione was broken out of her trance when an argument broke out among the students about the comet. Professor Sinistra had been doing what Hermione was reasonably sure was a decent job of explaining the mechanics of it, but some of the students took issue.

“Why are we spending so much time on this bloody comet,” one of the fifth-years yelled. “Things are bad enough already without obsessing over that.”

“But maybe it’ll help us predict what’s gonna happen in the war,” a boy pointed out as Professor Sinistra tried to calm them down.

“All it’s predicting is that things are terrible and going to get worse.”

Fierce debate broke out over the relative merits of analysing the comet for divination purposes. “Oh, comets are much more complex than that,” Luna spoke up. “Even when they predict doom, we don’t know whose doom it is. It could be You-Know-Who’s. Or it could be Princess Diana’s. Or it could be the President of Zaire’s. We can’t say for sure…I just think they’re pretty, don’t you?”

 _Wait, what?_ Hermione thought. That was random even for Luna.

“What are you talking about, Loony?” Lavender snapped. Lavender and Parvati were two of the small class of N.E.W.T. Astronomy students, given its application to divination. “It’s obviously about the doom of magical Britain. Professor Trelawney said so lots of times.”

The fight was playing out in a view as plain as day with Hermione’s enhanced night vision, so she could see the hurt on Luna’s face. “Lavender…” she said.

“It’s true,” Lavender said. “The muggles have it all wrong. You don’t do divination for _muggles_. It only works for magical people. Comets are a bad omen for _us_ —and the second in two years.”

“For the love of God, it is _not_ a bad omen!” Hermione shouted. “All this bad stuff happened before _either_ comet showed up. V—You-Know-Who came back _before_ they were visible. It’s just that _you_ didn’t want to believe it until it was staring you in the face!” She pointed at Lavender, then waved vaguely at the rest of the crowd.

“Miss Granger—” Professor Sinistra started.

“Hey!” Lavender said. “I said I was sorry about that. I believed it as soon as the stars said so.”

“Or you could have just listened to trustworthy witnesses,” Hermione said.

“The stars _are_ trustworthy. Professor Trelawney—”

“Professor Trelawney—” She stopped and choked down her words before she said something she’d regret. _She was a fraud who did most of her act with theatrics and cold reading_ , she thought _._ “Professor Trelawney had two confirmed prophecies to her name, Lavender. And I’m going to stick to worring about those because those two prophecies have done more, good and bad, than all the horoscopes in Britain. Honestly, the star signs don’t even match the calendar anymore! I don’t need them to tell me how to fight Death Eaters. Good night.” She stomped back into the castle, only to collapse from the sudden migraine and nearly fall down the stairs when the first torch she saw blinded her.

She cancelled the spell and conjured a pair of sunglasses to wear until the forced dark adaptation of the potion wore off. Then, she sat on the stairs moaning softly until her head stopped pounding.

“Hermione?” Parvati’s voice called behind her. “Whoa! Hermione, are you okay?”

“Forgot to cancel the night vision,” she groaned. “I’ll be fine.”

“Oh…Well, I wanted to say that wasn’t very nice of you. Lavender’s been under a lot of stress—”

“I know. I’m sorry,” Hermione cut in. “I didn’t mean to hurt her—or you. I know how much Professor Trelawney meant to you. It’s just…divination, and astrology in particular…”

“Yes, I remember your rants back in third year. You were even harsher back then.” Parvati gave her a pointed look.

Hermione sighed: “Parv, we’re not going to agree on this. I have my opinions on divination, and I think I said all I needed to say back then. I’m just sick and tired of this morbid fascination with Comet Hale-Bopp as an omen of doom when it could— _should_ —be a beautiful astronomical event.”

“But you have to admit the timing is worrying,” she said. “Even the muggles—”

“Don’t even go there, Parv,” Hermione cut her off. “Those muggles died because they followed a nut-case who believed he was possessed by space aliens who were going to beam them up to a ship that was hiding behind the comet. It was a _cult_. It had nothing whatsoever to do with astrology of any stripe.”

“Okay, okay,” she said. “Look, we’re still on your side—both of us. This is just a hard time for us.”

“Well, that’s kind of you, Ron’s really the one you should talk to. He’s in charge of the D.A. now. I’ve got my own projects for the war effort. This was just the best chance I had to take a break.”

“Oh…er, I’m sorry, then.”

“It’s fine. Hopefully tomorrow will go better.”

The next night did, indeed, go better. The third- and fourth-years were more dazzled by the stars and less fixated on dire predictions. They were enraptured when Hermione explained the deep sky to them—something that wasn’t covered very well on the curriculum in her opinion. For herself, she wore herself out watching the sky, and at the end of the lesson, she relaxed by gazing out at the Black Lake from the ramparts—as tranquil and full of stars as the sky itself. With the great bulk of the castle and the blinding points of light of the torches blocked from her view, she felt almost like she was floating in the air—perhaps high up at the edge of space with the whole universe turning around her.

As these idle thoughts flitted through her mind, something more concrete began to form—an idea to revisit something she had previously discarded, although it would be several days before she could put it clearly enough to ask. And the Weasleys, even George and Fred, probably weren’t the best people to ask about it. She would, she decided, need Sirius for this one.

* * *

Hermione hadn’t been out to see Sirius much since Harry went into hiding with him, but she did know how to get there—discreetly, with a mixture of Apparition and muggle methods. Sirius was glad to see her, but she had business to take care of.

“Sirius, I heard a rumour that you’ve been teaching Harry Apparition,” she told him. “Is that true?”

Sirius smirked at her cheekily and said, “Who wants to know?”

“I take it you know how to reverse a splinching, then?”

“If it’s one that doesn’t require Healer’s intervention, yes.”

“Good. I might ask you for some pointers on that. I’ve only learnt the basics so far, but the main reason I came here was that I want to extend my Apparition skills.”

“Extend them? How? You already have your Side-Along license, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I was thinking more along the lines of something they wouldn’t have formal lessons for—something I’d need a spotter to try. Harry, you might be interested in this too. Have you ever heard of someone Apparating out of water?”

“Out of water…” Sirius thought for a minute, briefly confused by the odd question. “No, not that I can think of, but I don’t see why it wouldn’t work, either, except you’d be disoriented and weightless, so it would be quite a bit harder.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” she agreed. “I don’t think it would even be that hard. It’s more of a mental exercise, really. I want to try to teach myself. Harry are you interested.”

Harry looked surprised by the conversation, but he thought about it and nodded slowly. “I guess it could be useful if you get dropped in a lake or something. I don’t know if I’m at that level yet, though.”

“You’re doing fine, Harry,” Sirius assured him. “If you want to do it, I’ll spot for both of you if we can find a safe place to do it. I don’t know how useful it would be, but it could be fun.”

Hermione nodded, but she smirked inwardly. This was just the first step. “I was also thinking about Apparating onto a moving platform. I _know_ that’s possible—just very difficult.”

“A moving platform?” Sirius said in surprise. “Yeah, that’s a hell of a hard thing to do. It’d be useful—getting onto a moving train or something, but I don’t know how you’d practice it safely.”

“Don’t worry, Sirius. I have an idea or two.”

* * *

The location to practice Apparating out of water was a private swimming pool that Sirius rented out for a “pool party”. (Even as a technical fugitive, he still had access to copious amounts of gold through Gringotts.) He Confunded the staff to leave and put up Muggle-Repelling Charms while they practiced. Then, with considerable effort, Hermione carefully filtered the impurities out of the water, leaving it as pure as if it were distilled. In case of a serious splinching, they didn’t want chlorine (or hypochlorous acid, rather; Hermione had learnt to appreciate precision chemistry) or anything else getting into the wounds.

For Hermione, Apparating out of a pool was surprisingly easy. She needed some practice, and there _were_ splinchings, but she got it down quickly since she’d already done the hard conceptual work with her Side-Along lessons.

Harry, however, was another story. He was just reaching proficiency with regular Apparition, and Hermione soon figured out he was making the same mistake she had been of feeling with proprioception instead of properly visualising. She did her best to teach him the correct technique (and she liked to think she was doing quite a bit better than Mr. Twycross), but when he splinched himself a little too close to his torso for comfort, Sirius called a stop and said he should back off and work on his fundamentals some more.

Hermione’s idea for practising Apparating onto a moving platform was an old train-yard. A handcar that had a large enough flat bed on it could be padded and used as a landing platform to Apparate onto and could be run at variable speed on the tracks without the complication of an engine-powered vehicle. Of course, the train-yard didn’t actually have a handcar large enough to do that, but it wasn’t hard for the three of them to assemble one with magic and enchant it to roll on its own. Sirius even arranged a long oval of tracks for it to roll on with an ease she hadn’t expected him to be able to pull off.

“This _does_ look like a good idea,” he said when he finished. “I might try my hand at this myself. It could be useful sometime.”

“I’m hoping so,” Hermione agreed. “Make the handcar go a little faster…good.” The handcar was rolling along the track at about five miles an hour. “I don’t understand exactly what needs to be done,” she admitted, “but I think I can make a good guess. You just have to be more careful accounting for the relative motion.”

“What does that mean?” Harry asked.

“Well, think of it this way, Harry. If you Apparate any significant distance on Earth, because of the rotation of the Earth, that place is moving relative to where you are now in an inertial reference frame. But that’s not a problem because you visualise yourself arriving at rest relative to your destination, and so you do. For this, you need to visualise yourself landing at rest relative to the moving handcar. That’s harder because we see it moving from here, but if you do it right, you _should_ land on the handcar smoothly.”

“Uh huh,” he said sceptically. “I’m thinking _you_ should try it first.”

Hermione could understand his reticence. She was wearing full skater gear for this herself: helmet, knee pads, elbow pads, and padded gloves. If it were just one or two falls, she wouldn’t have bothered, but she was anticipating falling down a lot in this exercise.

“Of course,” she said. “Well, here it goes.” She waited until the enchanted handcar came around to one of the straightaways. It would be much harder to try to Apparate to it on a curve. Then, she carefully visualised herself appearing on the flat bed and moving with it. She turned on the spot, Apparated…and immediately felt the ground lurch under her. She fell flat on her face, bounced off the side of the handcar, rolled off, and flopped onto her back on the ground.

Harry and Sirius rushed to her side. “Hermione! Are you alright?” Harry said.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Honestly, that’s about what I was expecting would happen.”

She tried a few more times and improved significantly. She had to visualise being at rest on the handcar and shut the rest of the world out of her thoughts. If she did it right, she found, she wouldn’t actually feel the shift in velocities any more than she felt the shift when Apparating from one end of the country to the other. After enough tries, she managed to land on the handcar and stay on her feet. Then, she asked Sirius to increase the speed, and she failed again, though she was able to compensate quickly.

She didn’t get all that far though in terms of speed before the three of them decided to slow it down again so that Sirius and Harry could have a go. They both transfigured helmets to wear, even Sirius, who didn’t seem like the type to wear one, but he’d seen Hermione take enough falls to know he’d need it. Sirius actually caught on fairly quickly and enjoyed the little game, but Harry wasn’t quite at that level yet.

All in all, it was a good start. It would take some time, but Hermione was pretty sure it would work. And then, she could combine her two new skills for what she _really_ wanted to do—the idea that had begun to come to her on the Astronomy Tower: Apparating high in the air and back down out of free-fall to get out of a tight spot when she didn’t know where she was. The principles were the same, just applied a bit differently. She suspected more than a few wizards could do it already, if they thought of it, so she really wanted to have it in her repertoire.

* * *

The last Quidditch match of the year was neither particularly exciting nor particularly long. It was Gryffindor versus Ravenclaw for the Quidditch Cup, with Ravenclaw at a large disadvantage—even more so because of Cho’s death. Ron had kicked Cormac McLaggen off the Gryffindor team and replaced him with Dean Thomas, so their Chaser squad was much more coherent overall. And to top it all off, Ginny caught the Snitch very quickly, winning the Cup for Gryffindor by a large margin.

It was somewhat fitting that the shortened Quidditch game gave Bill, Hermione, and Harry extra time to sort through the Room of Requirement. They’d searched a solid majority of it for horcruxes by now, and they were still confident of getting all the way through it by the end of the school year if necessary. Hermione hadn’t noticed any evidence of anyone else sneaking into the Room of Requirement to repair the Vanishing Cabinet on her map, so they merely kept a quiet watch on it in the meantime.

It was tedious work, especially for Bill, and it required constant focus because a single misstep around a dark item, horcrux or not, could have catastrophic results. Today, however, things were different. About half an hour in, Bill let out a shout: “Harry, Hermione, I think I’ve found it”.

“You found it?” Harry said. “Finally?”

“I think so. You said Ravenclaw’s Diadem was one of the potential items, didn’t you?”

Hermione and Harry rushed to his side and looked as he pointed to a circlet of silver lying carelessly on top of a pile of junk: an eagle in delicate silver filigree, studded with sapphires and many small diamonds, and on the front, as they drew closer, they saw there words carved in a flowing, feminine script:

_Wit Beyond Measure is Man_ _’s Greatest Treasure_

 

“My God,” Hermione breathed. “This is really Rowena Ravenclaw’s lost diadem?”

“It looks like it,” Bill said soberly. “No one’s seen it for sure since Ravenclaw herself lost it, but it looks just like it does in the portraits and sculptures. And it’s riddled with dark magic. Merlin, anyone who would think of tainting such a priceless historical artifact—it’s horrible.”

“Don’t touch it,” Harry said. “That’s how Dumbledore got cursed.”

“No, I know. The question is, what do we do with it?”

“We should take it with us,” Hermione said. “There’s not much risk that someone would notice it’s missing. After all, You-Know-Who isn’t likely to tell anyone about it. And if we destroy it here, there’s at least as much risk of it being found out.”

“Definitely,” Harry agreed. “And if we just leave it, You-Know-Who could move it.”

“That’ll be hard to do safely,” Bill cautioned. “We can’t touch it. And we don’t know if it might have some effect just from its aura. We don’t know exactly what happened to Dumbledore. And we _do_ know what the diary did to Ginny.”

“Actually, I planned for this,” Hermione said. She knelt down and rummaged around in her handbag, taking out a heavy box with a shiny silver-white surface. When she opened it, the inner surface was revealed to be gold, with two dark grey layers sandwiched in between. She stepped back and levitated the diadem into the box, closed it, and cast _“Lokutharmeth!”_ a flash of sparks sealed the box all the way around, making it seamless.

“What was…was that gold?” Bill said.

“Just gold foil,” she admitted. “I used it for its alchemical purity and resistance to corrosion. The inner structural layer is tungsten. I used that because it makes the best radiation shielding—better than lead, certainly. I don’t know if that’ll help, but I hope it will. Then I used carbon nanotubes for strength—the same stuff as my sword—and the surface is titanium-plated. There’s not much alchemical literature on titanium, but it’s one of the most hypoallergenic metals, so I’m hoping it’ll be alchemically neutral and block detrimental effects.”

“Merlin,” Bill said. “That’s…impressive, Hermione. I don’t know if it’ll work, but I don’t think I could come up with anything better…Well, I guess we’re done here.”

“Can we at least do something to sabotage the Vanishing Cabinet before we go?” Harry said.

“Hmm, there’s a lot we _could_ do. The danger is if a Death Eater comes in here, notices someone else has been in here, and reports it to You-Know-Who.”

“What about an alarm set to go off if someone tampers with it?”

“Like a silent alarm, you mean?” Hermione asked. “I could try, but we’d need something to receive it, and I can’t get a magical signal out of here even to my Map. I think the Room doesn’t properly exist when no one’s in it.”

“Oh…wait, what about a Protean Charm?” he said.

“No, that’s the same problem. It would…” Hermione trailed off, and her eyes widened. “Of _course!_ It would go blank when the Room is closed, and it would reappear when the Room is opened again— _this version_ of the Room, with the Vanishing Cabinet in it. We’d know the instant anyone came in here. Harry, that’s brilliant!”

Harry grinned. “I knew there had to be _something_ we could do,” he said.

“Right. Um…here.” Hermione used her wand to carve a circular wooden medallion from a piece of furniture. “Bill, show me a rune on the Vanishing Cabinet that a Death Eater would absolutely _have_ to modify to fix it.”

Bill examined the cabinet and quickly found one: a prominent _Raido_ rune with a large crack through it. She copied it onto the medallion with a Protean Charm and turned it into a necklace, which she handed out to Harry. “Here, Harry,” she said. “It was your idea. You should take it.”

“Thanks, Hermione.” He put the necklace on. “Let’s go. Sirius will want to see this.”

They left the Room, but there was one snag in their plan. Just as they were on their way out, a ghost swooped down out of nowhere and stood in their path. Hermione didn’t remember ever seeing this ghost up close. She would have been beautiful in life—young, with shiny, waist-length hair—but right now, she looked angry.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.

Hermione looked to Bill for guidance. Bill looked surprised. “The Grey Lady?” he said. “You can talk?”

“Just because I find few people worthwhile to talk to—” the ghost said. “What are you doing with my mother’s diadem?”

“You’re _mother_ _’s?_ ” Hermione gasped.

The Grey Lady jerked her head in her direction and regarded her for a moment. “In life, I was Helena Ravenclaw,” she said.

“Her daughter,” Bill whispered. “I had no idea.”

“Of course,” Hermione said. “The only ghosts who don’t show up on the Map by their real names are her and the Bloody Baron. They must have died before the Wards were finalised…Huh, I’m surprised a ghost from the eleventh century can speak modern English so well.”

The Grey Lady—Helena—twitched when Hermione mentioned the Baron, but said nothing, nor did she respond to Hermione’s compliment.

“What makes you think we have the diadem?” Bill asked cautiously.

“I can sense its presence,” she said. “Or rather, I _could_. It vanished from my perception, and then _you_ exited the room where it was hidden. You must have it.”

“We—” Bill started.

“I warn you, whatever you want my mother’s diadem for, you cannot use it. It is under a dark curse.”

“Yes, we know that,” Bill said.

Now, Helena looked surprised. “You know?” she said.

“Yes,” Hermione said. “That’s why we needed to find it. We’re going to find a way to _lift_ the curse.”

“To…lift the curse?” Helena looked taken aback.

“We need to lift the curse to defeat You-Know-Who—erm, the Dark Lord,” Bill said.

“I know of whom you speak,” the ghost said. “At one time, I knew him as Tom Riddle. He was…charming, flattering. He seemed to…understand me. He asked me about the diadem, and…I told him—when I’d told no one else. I had no idea…”

Suddenly, Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak. If Helena was startled, she didn’t show it. “You-Know-Who could be like that, Helena,” Harry said. “He could be charming when he wanted to be. You weren’t the first person he fooled.”

“When was this, Helena?” Hermione said with some concern.

“It’s hard to remember exactly. When he was in school.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. Ghosts had poor long-term memories. She’d seen that with Myrtle and others. For Helena to remember the young Tom Riddle meant he must have had a truly traumatic impact on her afterlife.

Helena regarded them for a minute. “You believe you can lift the curse?” she asked.

“We have one way that will definitely work,” Hermione assured her. “We’re going to try a few other things first to see if we can lift the curse without damaging it.”

Helena’s face suddenly turned hard again: “Even if you do, the diadem will be of no use to you. You would do better to dispose of it now.”

“What do you mean?” Hermione said worriedly.

She lowered her gaze and turned away from them. “I stole my mother’s diadem,” she said in a whisper. “That is my great shame. I sought to become more brilliant and powerful than my mother, so I took the diadem that she had hoarded for herself. I fled all the way to Illyria so she could not find me.”

“Illyria?” Hermione asked.

“Modern-day Albania,” Bill said.

“I tried to use the diadem,” Helena continued, “but I could not. I had seen my mother use it. When she wore it, she was brilliant beyond measure. She performed feats of magic that should have been impossible—too difficult and too intricate to comprehend, yet she did them as easily as breathing. But when I wore it, it only drove me to madness. I was thrown into a world of unfathomable light and noise. I could barely focus enough to remove the diadem, let alone cast a spell. I was… _unworthy_ …

“In my anger, I refused to return home. I still tried to make the diadem obey me, but it never did. Even when my mother grew ill and lay dying, I did not return. When I refused, the man she had sent to retrieve me—who had claimed he loved me—stabbed me in a rage, and then killed himself when he realised what he had done.”

“My God…” Hermione whispered. She saw now the silver bloodstains on Helena’s robes. She had to ask; the pieces fit together too well: “The Baron?”

Helena nodded.

“Well…I’m sorry for the pain it’s caused you, but this isn’t about using the diadem. We have other reasons for needing cleanse to it without destroying it. It’s the learning _how_ that’s more important.”

“Helena,” Harry cut in. “You can’t tell _anyone_ about this. If this gets back to You-Know-Who, he’ll take action, and we’ll never be able to beat him.”

The ghost looked between the three of them. “I will keep your secret, Gryffindors. I want to see Tom Riddle destroyed as much as anyone. May you find success in your fight.”

“Erm, thank you, Lady Helena,” Hermione said, and with that, the ghost floated away, and they left the castle in peace.

* * *

Aside from various Weasleys, Sirius was the only person Harry and Hermione had told about the horcruxes. They would have told Remus, but he was off in another safe-house, now. The only other people they might have considered were Professor McGonagall and Septima. However, McGonagall had enough on her plate as it was, and Septima wasn’t an Order member. Snape also knew, but it was best not to give away too much to the double agent.

Hermione offered to bring in George and Fred on the discussion (and she insisted they could be serious enough), and Harry offered to bring in Ron and Ginny via his mirror, but Bill vetoed involving his siblings, and Sirius agreed that they should only involve full Order members in this talk. So it was Harry, Hermione, Bill, and Sirius, hidden behind many concealing wards, sat in a circle like the Council of Elrond as Hermione withdrew it from her carrying case and levitated it onto the coffee table.

“You told me that Dumbledore said it was too dangerous to leave a horcrux intact once we find it,” Sirius said.

“Yes, he did,” Hermione said, “but I don’t follow Dumbledore’s advice blindly anymore. I haven’t follow him blindly ever since Sturgis Podmore was Kissed in Azkaban.”

“But do we really need it, though?” asked Bill. “You have a way to destroy it, don’t you?”

“Yes, I could destroy it right this minute with my basilisk fang,” she confirmed. “But it could still be useful.”

Sirius scoffed: “Useful how? It’s corrupted to hell and back by dark magic.”

“Because,” she said, “if we keep the diadem intact, we can experiment on it—use it to help us find a way to cure Harry.” Everyone glanced at Harry, who said nothing. “If I can study a live horcrux, I should be able to make much more progress on how to destroy it without destroying the vessel.”

Bill frowned grimly. “Are you _certain_ of that, Hermione?” he said. “I know how horcruxes work. Are you sure it’s not influencing you?”

She shook her head: “I suppose I can’t completely rule out that it is, but I was thinking about this even before we went for the ring. I need a specimen to study. And we have a reliable way to destroy it quickly if something goes wrong.” In her mind, however, she was second-guessing herself. That such a valuable historical artifact—and one that might yet have useful powers despite what Helena had said—would be destroyed was abhorrent to her. And if she could cleanse it without destroying it, she might be able to _use_ it—or at least to see why Helena had failed. _That_ part sounded uncomfortably like the horcrux’s influence, and she would have to guard against it, but it was still true that she needed a specimen to study.

“I can definitely get behind helping Harry like that,” Sirius said, “but the danger is, what if you start tampering with it, and you alert You-Know-Who to it somehow?”

“Dumbledore said You-Know-Who wasn’t human enough to feel his horcruxes anymore,” Harry spoke up. “Besides if he could feel anything, it’d be when they’re destroyed, and we’ve already been doing that.”

“Fair enough,” Sirius said.

“Frankly, I’m more worried about if the diadem is damaged or we have to destroy it before I figure out the answer,” Hermione said. “We won’t get many chances.”

Everyone stared at each other in silence for a minute, and Harry spoke up again.

“I think we need to go to the cave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Akhtarroshan: Persian for “starlight”.


	53. Chapter 53

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: BRAAAAINS! Oh, way, wrong story. Um…JK Rowling owns all!

They went to the cave at dusk.

It was the same reasoning as Dumbledore had had with the shack: avoiding attracting attention. It was also only Bill, Hermione, and Harry—the most essential people for the task. They quickly decided not to bring in anyone else (Bill once again vetoed his siblings). The one person they considered was Sirius. He would have been an asset against aggressive defences, but Bill insisted that anyone who wasn’t a cursebreaker themselves on a mission like this was dead weight, and he had two he couldn’t leave behind already, so Sirius very anxiously agreed to wait for them with George and Fred and a very cross (and mostly uninformed) Fleur to provide assistance when they returned.

Bill Side-Alonged Harry and led Hermione via Apparition to the site. They arrived to find themselves standing on an outcropping of rocks on the windy shore of the North Sea, at the bottom of a cliff face that loomed ominously above them, black and foreboding, while waves crashed against the rocks mere feet from where they stood.

“You’re sure this is the right place?” Hermione said. “Dumbledore said Tom Riddle came here on holiday as a boy.”

“Positive,” Bill said. “Probably on top of the cliff, but still. I could detect the wards. The cave entrance is just about under us.” He pointed with his wand down at something Harry and Hermione couldn’t see over the lip of the rock outcropping. “We’ll have to swim to it, but it’s not far. Just be careful not to hit your head on a rock. Come on. We’ll need to hurry and make sure we get through it in plenty of time before the tide comes in.”

If it took that long, Hermione thought they would be having more serious problems. Even though she knew that cursebreakers sometimes needed weeks to crack open a tomb, that was more down to forensics and translation. If it took more than a few hours here, it could raise suspicions with You-Know-Who that would make their task much harder.

“How do we get down there?” Hermione asked, eyeing the jagged rocks below sceptically.

Bill produced a coil of rope and tied it to an outcropping. “There’s a path around that way,” he said, gesturing to the side. “I scouted as far as the entryway of the cave. We could pick out way down without it, but this is easier.”

With the skill of a professional, Bill scrambled down the rocks with the aid of the rope to the water level, leaving Harry and Hermione to follow at their own pace. It wasn’t that hard with the rope, but when they hit the water, the cold hit Hermione like a lorry. She’d never been swimming in water this cold before, though Harry had much worse off in the Triwizard Tournament. Harry kicked his way over to her and held her head above water long enough to get a Warming Charm off before the shock made her sink.

“Thanks, Harry,” she said breathlessly.

“You-Know-Who just couldn’t pick a tropical island, yeah?” he said with a grin.

“Would’ve been smarter—putting it farther away from Britain,” she said. “Of course, even smarter would be an underwater vault off the coast of Marie Byrd Land or something, so we should count ourselves lucky.”

“Marie who?”

“Marie Byrd Land. It’s the Pacific-facing coast of Antarctica—the last major unclaimed territory on Earth. I… _may_ have fantasised about claiming it for a muggle-born-ruled, magitech-powered utopia on occasion.”

Harry laughed: “Only you, Hermione.”

“Yeah. The scary part is I could see you doing it,” Bill agreed. “Anyway, we’d better move.” He gave the rope three sharp tugs, and the knot untied itself, and it coiled itself back around his arm. “Don’t want to leave a trace,” he said.

“Huh. Elvish rope,” Hermione observed.

“Huh?” Bill and Harry said.

“Muggle reference. Never mind. Where’s the cave?”

“This way,” Bill said.

It was a short swim to the mouth of the cave, which was good, as they were still wearing street clothes. Hermione could see what he meant about time. The entrance would be completely submerged at high tide. The tunnel was narrow, and they pushed themselves along the rock walls as much as swam it. It was surprisingly long, too, and would have been pitch black were it not for their wandlight, but Bill didn’t lead them astray, and they came to a staircase carved into the rock, leading up into a part of the cave that looked to be permanently dry. It didn’t look like much—a bare, rough chamber, eroded naturally out of the rock. Hermione quickly used a Hot Air Charm to dry out her clothes before she got hypothermia, and Harry and Bill followed suit.

“This is as far as I came before,” Bill said. “Just far enough to tell there was something behind here. Now, we need to find the entrance.” He began waving his wand over the rock face and murmuring softly in various languages. “Dumbledore probably could’ve done this by touch alone,” he muttered. “Anyway. You said there was a blood sacrifice to get into the shack. I’m hoping…aha. Same trick here.” He pointed to a nondescript section of rock.

“I’ve got—” Hermione started to say.

“No,” Bill cut her off. “If we’re going to save Harry in the end, you’re both worth more than I am. Besides, I’m the Cursebreaker here.”

Hermione sighed, but he was right. “At least use my stiletto,” she said, pulling her black dagger from her boot.

Bill examined the blade and nodded, pronouncing it satisfactory, and pricked his finger, dripping blood on the rock. A few drops later, and an entrance appeared. There was no ominous grinding of rock, as Hermione expected. Instead, a whole arch-shaped section of the wall simply vanished, leaving a black entrance to the chamber within. That…that was _high magic_ , she thought—the thing simply _done_ —a different kind of intimidating from her flashy special effects. She’d have to think on that when she got the chance.

“C’mon. Slowly,” Bill said. He stepped into the archway, waving his wand to check for curses all the while.

The inner chamber of the cave was huge—so huge Hermione was certain it must have been magically expanded. Most of the space was taken up by a small lake—black as the Outer Darkness in that underground cavern—with only a narrow path of rock, little more than a catwalk, surrounding it. The only light besides their wands was a sickly greenish glow from some kind of beacon in the middle of the lake. The light wasn’t bright enough to see the far side, nor the ceiling, and it was Killing Curse green—the colour of Death.

“Oh, _this_ is pleasant,” Hermione muttered.

“Par for the course for You-Know-Who,” Bill agreed.

“Do we swim?” Harry asked.

“No. I don’t think so. In fact, don’t touch the water. I have a bad feeling about it.”

“Summoning?” he suggested.

Bill paused and cast a few spells. Suddenly, a pale form leapt out of the water not twenty feet away from them and fell back down with a splash that sounded like a gunshot in the silence. Harry and Hermione both screamed.

“No, no, definitely not,” Bill said with a pained sound.

“What—what the hell was that?” Hermione whimpered. She knew what she _thought_ she saw, but it was too horrible for her mind to accept.

“Inferius,” he said, grim-faced. “And I’ll bet a lot of gold there are a lot more. No magic. Or at least very limited. Nothing that will help us get to the horcrux.”

Inferi. Human corpses enchanted to move like a puppet and act with some limited intelligence, and cursed to be resistant to most magic besides fire. One of the darkest weapons of dark wizards everywhere. It seemed they’d found the defence system.

“I don’t suppose broomsticks would fare any better?” Hermione asked.

“You-Know-Who probably has someway to deal with them,” he agreed. “Maybe not cancelling the flight charms, but making them throw the rider off, or enchanted seaweed to reach up and grab them, maybe.”

“Do we have to fight the inferi?” asked Harry.

“You said this was supposed to _solvable?_ ” Bill clarified.

“Yeah. That’s how You-Know-Who would do it. There must be a way.”

“Then it’s not fighting them. Even _he_ wouldn’t fight that many of them. Anyway, the horcrux will be in the middle. It’s standard evil tomb practice. The prize will be on the island in the centre of the creepy lake. The trick is to find how we’re meant to get across it.” He waved his wand a few more times, and this time, no inferi appeared. “Come on. This way. Be careful.”

Bill led Harry and Hermione around the narrow rim of the lake, moving slowly. It took a long time, and Hermione was starting to worry about the length of the mission again. It was hard to judge, but she thought they’d made it a quarter of the way around the lake before Bill held up his hand for a stop. Now, he crept forward even more slowly, waving his off hand up and down as if groping for something. Neither of the students dared interrupt him. Suddenly, his fist gripped around something they couldn’t see, and he grinned.

“Gotcha,” he whispered.

With a tap of his wand, a coppery green chain faded into visibility, extending from an eye hook on the cave wall above their heads, down into the water. Another tap, and it began coiling itself on the ground at his feet with an ominous clinking sound. A few fathoms later, and a small boat—clearly built for one person—emerged from the water with no disturbance from the inferi.

“Wow,” Harry said. “How did you find that?”

“Second rule of cursebreaking: ‘What magic can hide, magic can reveal.’ Although if you do it right, it’s damn near impossible to do it. When we get out of here, I can show you some of the detection spells.” He bent down to examine the boat.

“If that’s the second rule of cursebreaking, what’s the first?” Hermione asked.

“What magic can bind, magic can loose,” he said absently. “That’s not counting the unwritten rule: don’t mess with powerful magic unless you’re prepared to face the consequences.”

 _Isn_ _’t messing with powerful magic your job?_ Hermione thought, but what she said was, “Not every equation has a solution.”

“True, but it’s a little different with physical structures. We can pretty much take as an axiom that it does, and it usually works—Okay, we have a problem.”

“What?” Harry and Hermione said worriedly.

“This boat. The enchantments are a little like an age line—oddly. They’ll only let one adult witch or wizard cross. Harry, you can come, but Hermione…I’m sorry, but you’ll have to stay here.”

Hermione swallowed as her anxiety increased. Bill and Harry were more than competent, but that was one less person to help if something went wrong. She nodded her agreement. “But why would You-Know-Who allow underage wizards at all?” she asked.

To her surprise, it was Harry who answered with a nauseous look on his face: “In case he needed to use a kid as a shield to get through the protections.”

“Oh…”

“Let’s keep it together,” Bill said. “We need to get going.”

“Harry!” Hermione said before he could get on the boat. She pulled another horcrux-containment box from her handbag and handed it to him. “You remember the spell to seal it?” she asked.

“ _Lokutharmeth_. Yeah. Don’t worry. We’ll be careful,” he said, and he stepped on the boat, wobbling a little as he did.

Bill followed him. He cast a spell that unhooked the chain from the wall, and he levitated the entire coil into the boat itself. It _must_ have been enchanted because it sat no lower in the water now that when it was empty, even though it looked overloaded. It began to move without any further prompting, gliding through the water as silently as the grave, its wake spreading out in ripples that vanished unnaturally quickly, leaving the lake’s black surface as smooth as glass behind them. Hermione watched as they drifted further and further away and carefully sat down on the ledge, her knees drawn up to her chin, anxiously waiting and wishing she could do something to help.

* * *

Harry had to crouch with his knees on the rim of the boat to fit in there with Bill, constantly wary of falling over the edge. Up close, the lake’s perfect appearance was marred. Where it had once looked like a black mirror, now, under the golden light of his wand, he could see a little bit under the surface, and as soon as he did, he wished he hadn’t. There were bodies in the water. Easily a dozen just where the boat passed. Pale hands reached up towards the surface, motionless, and yet seemingly constantly grasping. Pale faces, bloated and waterlogged, gazed up at him, their eyes misted over and sightless. Many were still wearing clothes, and he could see both wizard robes and muggle street clothes on them.

Bill said nothing as they crossed, but he grimaced with anger and disgust each time he saw an inferius drift by. For his part, Harry could think of nothing to say either. The boat moved slowly, and it took long minutes for them to cross the lake. Harry also began to worry about how long this was taking.

Finally, they reached the island with a slight bump. Bill motioned for Harry to get out of the boat, and he did, being careful not to touch the water. The island was a low outcropping of rock, as black as the water, though it was visible being bathed in that sickly green light. The source of it was a crystal basin not unlike a Pensieve, which sat atop a pedestal. Most of the light, they saw when they approached, was coming from an evil-looking liquid within the basin. It so bright that Harry had to squint to look at it, even from the edge of the island, and it looked like the sort of thing that would be labelled “toxic waste” on a cartoon show. The basin and pedestal were also glowing faintly, but he hardly noticed in comparison.

“What is it?” he asked softly.

“Nothing good, I’m sure,” Bill said. “Dark magic, and a lot of it—dark enough to hide the signature of the horcrux itself.”

“So the horcrux is here?” Harry said.

“It has to be. But the potion is blocking my magic…hmm…” Bill pulled a silver potion-stirring rod from his pocket and tried to dip it into the potion, but it stopped an inch above the surface. He tapped it several times, harder each time. When that didn’t work, he tried his fingers.

“Bill, don’t—!” Harry yelled, but he stopped when Bills fingers stopped just as the rod did.

“It’s okay, Harry,” he said. “Some kind of barrier—”

“Hello? Hello? Testing. Testing. Can you hear me?” The voice was soft, but they stopped dead when they heard it coming through clearly in the silent cave.

“Hermione?” they both said in shock.

They looked back the way they came and were surprised to see a bright green light—brighter than the basin itself had looked from the edge of the lake. The light wasn’t a point either, but rectangular in shape. A tiny, human-shaped silhouette stood in front of it and waved: Hermione. From her silhouette, the panel of light must have been about four feet high and seven feet wide.

“Oh, good. I wasn’t sure this would work.” The voice sounded relieved.

“Hermione?” Bill said incredulously. “What did you do? How can we hear you?”

The lake was so large it took several seconds for her reply to reach them. “I used the Mylar sheet from my solar furnace—actually, it’s a space blanket, but—I levitated it and fixed it in a perfect ellipsoidal section and cast an Imperturbable Charm on it to make it a perfect sound reflector.”

“An ellipsoidal sound reflector?” Bill said. He knew enough arithmancy to understand the implications, but he was still surprised it worked so well. “I guess there’s no need to ask if you’re you. No one else would’ve thought of that.”

“Wait so it focuses—” Harry said.

“Ha ha. Very funny Bi—sorry, what, Harry?” Hermione replied. The delay was long enough that they were getting crosstalk. They’d have to take their conversation slowly.

“I said, it focuses sound?”

“Right. You should’ve studied conic sections in Arithmancy by now, Harry. It reflects all sound from one focus of an ellipse to converge at the other focus, and vice versa. I wasn’t sure it would work over this distance, but I figured it was good enough to detect aeroplanes in the First World War, so…”

“Oh, right. I get it. Professor Vector never talked much about reflections in conics. So what are you doing?”

“I wanted to find a way to help you—and to make sure you’re alright. What’s happened? What are you seeing?”

“There’s a pedestal,” Bill said matter-of-factly. “It’s about chest-high, and there’s a basin on top of it filled with a dark potion.”

“Bill says the horcrux is in the bowl of potion,” Harry took over. “But there’s some kind of barrier over it so we can’t reach into it. And it’s glowing bright green like it’s radioactive or something.”

“How big a basin is it?” Hermione’s voice called.

“Probably about three quarts,” Harry said, and Bill looked up at him in surprise. “I had to cook a lot growing up,” he added.

“Can you identify the potion?”

“No,” Bill said. “It might be something he or a Death Eater invented. I’m going to try a few things, but I don’t think it’ll work.” Harry watched as he waved his wand in various patterns over the basin, constantly murmuring spells to himself, but Harry could see no change in the potion, not even a ripple. He wasn’t completely convinced it was even a liquid. Entombing the horcrux in a block of some exotic ice would be a good trick. “No, it’s no good,” Bill concluded with a sigh. “It blocks all the magic I can throw at it. Can’t charm it or transfigure it. Can’t syphon it out. Can’t part it or vanish it or penetrate it by hand.”

“Then how do we get to the horcrux?” Harry asked.

Bill sighed more heavily. “It’s pretty clear what’s intended: it has to be drunk.”

“No!” Harry said, and Hermione’s denial followed a few seconds later.

“Bill, we don’t even know what that _is_ ,” Harry protested.

“What if it’s poisoned?” Hermione echoed. “You-Know-Who could use a minion to drink it or something.”

“He’d carry an antidote,” Harry corrected. “He wouldn’t rely on having a minion with him. But she’s right; it could kill you.”

“I don’t think we have a choice,” Bill said. “If we want to get the horcrux, it’s the only way.”

“Bill, no!” Harry repeated, but Bill conjured a goblet before he could stop him and started to lower it to the surface.

“Wait, Bill!” Hermione’s voice cut in. He stopped. “There must be other things you can try. Can you pierce a hole through the bottom of the basin?”

Harry tried it and yelped in pain. “Gah! No!”

“What happened?”

“Spell bounced right off. Nearly put a hole through my hand. Can we boil it, maybe?”

“And breath in the fumes?” he said. “That’d make it even worse.”

“What about scooping it out?” Hermione suggested.

Bill looked down at the goblet again, shrugged, and dipped it to the surface. It pierced the invisible barrier as nothing else did and came away filled with the glowing potion. Bill’s hand also dipped into the the liquid, but it came away completely clean. Then, Bill tried to pour the goblet out on the ground, but the liquid sloshed, but didn’t spill out, even when he turned it completely upside-down. “It’s no good, Hermione,” he reported. “I can scoop it, but I can’t pour it.”

“What if we use more goblets?” Harry suggested. He conjured a goblet of his own and tried to dip it, but it met the barrier again. “Damn it!”

“The second goblet hit the barrier,” Bill said for Hermione’s benefit. “It has to be drunk first.”

He waited for her reply in case she had another idea, and she did: “Can you make something else drink it? Like a conjured animal?”

Bill tried it, conjuring a rat. It skittered across the barrier without reaching the potion. He offered the goblet to it, but the moment it touched the liquid, it disintegrated in a puff of magic. Harry jumped.

“Still nothing,” Bill said. “It blocks active magic and undoes the conjuration on contact.”

“Damn,” Hermione echoed. “Can you think of anything else? I don’t—”

Her voice cut out abruptly. They looked up, and to their horror, the green rectangle on the cavern wall was gone, only a glint of light remaining.

 _“Hermione!”_ Harry shouted at the top of his lungs, hoping it would carry. _“Hermione are you there? What’s wrong?”_

_SCREECH!_

Several inferi leapt out of the water, disturbed by the noise, and Bill clapped his hand over Harry’s mouth. Luckily, the inferi dropped back into the water when silence fell. By the time the splashes cleared, the green rectangle was back. A couple seconds later, Hermione’s voice came to them. “Sorry! Sorry!” she said frantically. “The charms wore off. I had to put them up again. I’m fine. Do you have any more ideas on the basin.”

“No,” Bill said. “You-Know-Who’s thought of everything, and this system’s damn sophisticated.”

“Where are the runes that control it?” she asked.

“If he’s smart, on the inside of the basin. There’s tricks Cursebreakers can use for that, but they take days or weeks—sometimes longer. I’m sorry, Harry, Hermione, but if we want to get the horcrux now, we have to play by _his_ rules…One of us has to drink the potion.”

“I’ll do it,” Harry said at once.

“No, Harry. You’re more valuable.”

“I’m not—”

“ _Yes_ , you are. You’re the Chosen One. Like it or not, your life’s worth more than mine. I have to be the one to drink it.”

“Bill, we don’t know what this’ll do to you,” Harry said. “If you die here, Fleur will kill us—I mean, _literally_ kill us.”

“I’m not going to die here, Harry.”

“But this is You-Know-Who—”

“ _Think_ about it, Harry,” Bill said. “ _You_ said this puzzle was solvable—that You-Know-Who would want a way to get at his own horcruxes. Right?”

“Right…?”

“That means _if_ this is poison, it’s slow acting enough to get the horcrux out— _and_ curable. You said yourself he wouldn’t take the risk. And that’s important because You-Know-Who didn’t have any spells to notify him if the shack was breached. He isn’t able to keep constant watch here. That means if someone came in here and got the horcrux, they could probably get out again before he noticed. Then, what would You-Know-Who want?”

“He’d want to track them down and kill them,” Harry said without thinking.

Bill shook his head: “No, he’d want to track them down and _question_ them—”

“No, he’d want to question them first—” Hermione cut in. “Oh, sorry, Bill.”

“Okay, so he’d want to find them…” Harry said, and then it click. “And be _able_ to find them.”

“Exactly. Even if the potion is lethal, it acts slowly enough that someone would present with distinctive symptoms at St. Mungo’s first, and he could find them and question them as to how they got through his protections. Only we already know that, and we don’t have to go to St. Mungo’s.”

“We don’t?” Harry said.

“No. We can go to Snape. He might even know what this swill is to start with. Plus, Cursebreakers know to anticipate poison.” He pulled out a small kit from his robes and retrieved a phial and a small, stone-like object. “Harry, this is a strong purgative potion,” he said. “Once you have the horcrux, pour this down my throat. It won’t be pleasant. It’ll look like hell, honestly, but it’ll get as much of the potion out of my system as possible as fast as possible. Then, after I’m done vomiting, make me swallow the bezoar. There’s not much that combination _won_ _’t_ save you from if you’re fast enough.”

There was silence for a few seconds. Then, Hermione’s voice wafted in: “Harry, I don’t like this. In fact, I _hate_ it. But I can’t thing of anything better.”

“If we split it—” Harry started.

“No,” repeated Bill. “You said it yourself. We don’t know what this will do. It won’t kill us—not fast, anyway, but one of us still has to be lucid enough when it’s done to get us out of here.”

“What if you’re incapacitated before you’re done?” Hermione said worriedly.

“Then Harry will just have to make sure I keep drinking.” Bill steeled himself and raised the goblet to his lips.

“Bill, no! Bill, no, _please_ —!” Harry cried, but he wasn’t fast enough to stop him. Bill chugged the goblet as fast as a frat boy and dipped it into the potion for another glassful. He choked briefly halfway through, but he kept going.

“Harry? Bill? What’s happening?” Hermione called.

“Bill started drinking,” Harry said, his voice thick and leaden. “He’s on the third goblet.”

“My God. How is he?”

“Bill?” he asked.

Bill grimaced, his eyes squeezed shut, as he drained the third glass and started on a fourth.

“He looks like he’s in pain,” Harry said. “I don’t know what it’s doing to him.”

When Bill finished the fourth glass, he gasped loudly and flopped forward over the pedestal, supporting himself on his elbows. He was breathing hard, and his long hair brushed against the barrier over the potion.

“Bill! Bill, are you okay? Can you hear me?”

Bill said nothing. Instead, he reached down with shaking hands and scooped up another gobletful of potion to drink. He choked halfway through this one and nearly collapsed. The goblet would have spilt if it weren’t for the magic on the potion. He barely managed to bring it to his lips again and finish it. Harry saw the level of the potion in the basin had dropped quite a bit, but he was growing very worried for Bill, and he hoped his initial estimate of the amount of potion was high. Drinking three quarts of _anything_ would make the average person throw up if they weren’t used to it, much less this horrid brew.

“Bill, can you hear me?” he repeated.

The goblet hung limply from the man’s hand. He was crying. “I don’t want any more…” he whimpered. He didn’t sound in pain. He sounded _frightened_. “I don’t want any more…”

* * *

_“I don’t want any more…I don’t want anymore…”_

Hermione stood perfectly still, her head at the focus of her elliptical reflector, trying to keep her knees from giving out. The words were so soft she could barely make them out, but she wasn’t sure she’d ever heard Bill sounding so _scared_ before, at least in person. What on Earth was that potion doing to him?

“Harry?” she called, raising her voice a little to be heard. “Harry, please talk to me.”

A few seconds later, the reply came: “He stopped after five.” Harry sounded pained and scared himself. “The basin looks about half empty. He won’t drink any more.”

“Harry…” she said, and her voice caught, “Damn You-Know-Who. Harry, I’m sorry, but I think you’re going to have to make him.”

“I don’t think I can, Hermione,” he called back.

“You _have_ to, Harry,” she insisted. “He told you to make him keep drinking, and now that he had to be an noble arse and started, he’s got to finish the job. If he doesn’t, then all of this will have been for nothing. It’s too late to try something else.”

“I—Bill—okay…okay…I’ll do it,” Harry said.

Hermione didn’t hear exactly what happened after that, but she could hear Bill protesting a moment later: “Don’t make me…I want to stop…Stop…”

“I’m sorry, Bill,” Harry said. “You told me to do it. You…you’ve got to keep drinking.”

There was silence, and Bill moaned long and low: “Nooo…Let me go…Let me go…I don’t want to…I keep seeing them, over and over…Make it stop! Make it stop!”

“Bill!” Harry said. “It’s alright. I’m here. This will make it stop.”

There was a silence again in which Hermione guess Bill was drinking his seventh goblet of potion. Her heart clenched when she heard Harry lie to him. Then, she nearly fell in the water when Bill screamed—first wordless and ragged, then desperate and pleading: “ _AAAHHGGH!_ No! No, no, no! I can’t do it anymore. Don’t make me! Dad! Why did he hurt Dad? Why?”

He started babbling incoherently in terror. Hermione thought he sounded younger somehow. She stared at that mote of green light feeling utterly helpless, separated by at least a quart mile of blackness and deadly dark creatures. There was nothing she could do from here but offer encouragement that already rang hollow.

“Don’t! Don’t take anyone else from me! Please, don’t!”

“He’s gone mad!” Harry’s voice cut through.

“Just keep going, Harry,” she said shakily. She hated herself for saying it, but she didn’t know what else to do. “You have to keep going.”

“Bill, you’re alright,” he said. “Nothing’s happening. No one’s being taken from you.”

“They’re dead! Why did they have to die, Mummy? Why did they die, Mummy?”

Hermione was confused for a moment. Bill sounded delirious. What was he even _seeing_? A memory? A hallucination? How old was Bill when his uncles were killed? Old that that, she thought.

“Why won’t it stop, Mummy? Make it stop! Please, no more! I’ll do anything!”

“Here, drink this, and you’ll be alright,” Harry lied. “Drink this, and it’ll stop.”

“No! No! Just kill me! I’ll die before I do it again!”

There was a clatter as Bill presumably knocked the goblet out of Harry’s hand. Then, there was some grunting and moan, but it sounded like Harry regained control: “C’mon, Bill, it’s almost done…” She could hear in Harry’s voice how much he hated himself for doing this, but from the silence that followed, she guess he was still pushing Bill to drink—

_“KILL ME!”_

Hermione jumped again. Bill’s shout was so loud it must have torn his throat ragged.

“I can’t do it anymore! Just let me die! I just want it to stop…Please just kill me…” His voice trailed off, and he dissolved into incoherent sobbing.

For a long time, Bill’s sobbing was all Hermione could hear. Too long—minutes, at least, though they felt like hours. She couldn’t hear Harry moving the whole time. Had something worse happened? Had Bill attacked him?

“H-Ha-Harry?” she called worriedly.

There was another long pause before he answered: “I can’t do it,” Harry called. She could tell from his voice he was nearly sobbing himself. “I can’t—I’m sorry, Mione. I just can’t do it.”

Hermione blushed. It was the first time anyone in the wizarding world had ever called her that name, including George. It was a childish nickname that had annoyed her on occasion in primary school, and the fact that Harry was using it now showed how scared he truly was—a kind of fear different from facing Death Eaters or even dementors—the kind that can only come from seeing someone you care about in what must be terrible anguish.

“Harry, please, you have to keep him drinking,” she said. “You’ve got to be close to the end.”

“No…” the weak reply came back. “I can’t. I can’t do this to him anymore.”

“Harry—”

“There’s not much left. I’ll finish it myself.”

“Harry, no!” she screamed at the darkness. _“Harry, don’t do it! DON’T—!”_ But she knew it was too late.

Harry didn’t handle the potion gracefully, like Bill had at the start. He was strong-willed and stubborn as hell, but she could tell he was unprepared for whatever the potion was. She could hear him gagging, gasping, sputtering, moaning even as he downed the first glass.

“Harry, please!” she called in vain, tears streaming down her face. “I know you don’t want to hurt Bill, but you can’t! If it does the same thing to you, I can’t help you from here. You have to stay lucid. I can’t…”

“Augh! God, that’s awful,” Harry gasped. Then, a moment later, “This is it! I can see it—the locket!” But before Hermione could react he started gagging and moaning again. A minute later, there was a loud clatter—as loud as any sound got through the reflector—of a goblet hitting the hard, stone ground. A moment later, she heard the faint slump of a body.

_“Harry!”_

There was no answer.

“Harry! Bill! Someone say something.”

“I got it.” The words were so weak she could barely hear them. “I got the locket.”

“Oh, thank God. Harry, use the potion Bill gave you.”

Again, there was no answer.

“Harry, the purgative! The one Bill gave you! You have to use the purgative!”

There was silence from a minute. Then, she jumped at the sound of loud retching and moaning. They started violently and just kept going and going. The sounds went on a horribly long time, and no one answered when she called. Which ever one of them it was—maybe both—sounded like he was throwing up everything he’d ever eaten.

Then, even as the retching was still going on, she heard a far worse sound: a loud screech of hundreds of undead voices, punctuated by hundreds of pale hands grasping up out of the water.

* * *

_“Harry, the purgative! The one Bill gave you! You have to use the purgative!”_

Harry moaned and blinked through the pain and the haze of sorrow. He felt like he was dying of thirst, even after downing three gobletfuls of the worst potion he’d ever tasted—and he’d had Skele-Gro before, so that was saying something. He felt like his guts were on fire from his throat down into his bowels. But the worst were the visions. He saw his parents dying— _heard_ his mother screaming. He saw You-Know-Who’s laughing face. He saw the basilisk falling on him in the Chamber of Secrets. He saw Lee Jordan and Cho Chang dying in front of him—all dancing before his eyes in nauseating psychedelic distortion.

Bill was lying face-down on the stone floor, still crying and whimpering. In his few coherent words, he was begging for water, but he was too weak to move. Harry knew he must have it about three times as bad as he did. Somehow, in that haze, he remembered the purgative potion and crawled over to Bill and rolled him onto his back.

“Water…” Bill called weakly. “Water…”

“Here, drink this,” Harry said as he tipped the phial into his mouth. “This will make it better.” And for once, he was telling the truth—he hoped.

He turned Bill back on his side just in time, as he started violently retching. He gagged and retched loudly, over and over again, but nothing came out of his mouth. Harry started to worry that the purgative was a mistake. What if the potion was enchanted to stay in his stomach like it had in the glass?

By now, Bill was soaked with sweat like he’d just run a marathon, and his sweat was glowing faintly green. The potion was getting out of his system any way it could. He tried to push himself onto his hands and knees, but failed. His face was streaked with green as tears were _pouring_ out of his eyes, harder than Harry had ever seen anyone cry before, except perhaps Dobby. Glowing snot dripped out of his nose in large, disgusting dollops, and he was drooling fit to make Dudley look well-mannered. A moment later, a foul odour made it clear the purgative was working just fine at the other end of his system.

Only _then_ did he start vomiting.

Harry retched himself as he saw glowing green vomit pour out in pints over the stone floor. Like the dry heaving before, Bill’s vomiting went on and on, soaking what little of him wasn’t soaked already in filth. Most unfortunately, Bill rolled over while this was happening and vomited into the water.

_SCREEEEEEEECH!_

Hundreds of pale, rotten hands thrust themselves out of the water.

* * *

 _“HARRY! BILL!”_ Hermione screamed. She could see the moving shapes of shambling inferi silhouetted against the green glow, crawling up out of the lake and onto the small island. She saw flashes of spellfire, and she was relieved to see it was from two wands. Then, came the actual fire. She knew from her Defence lessons that no spell yet discovered could make dead flesh impervious to burning. She’d wondered at the time if that was arithmantically provable—if it was a unique solution to the inverse problem of creating an inferius.

But there were too many of them—far too many. Harry and Bill would be completely overrun, especially in the condition they must be in. Hermione couldn’t remember the last time she felt so helpless.

“Oh, screw it,” she spat.

She summoned a broomstick from her expanded handbag and used a sticking charm to stick the buttons of her basilisk-skin coat to the shaft, and then, crucially, she launched herself high into the air on a ballistic trajectory towards the island.

The defence against broomstick flying turned out to be twofold: a curse to make the broom buck it’s rider off, plus deadly stalactites falling from the high ceiling. Hermione clutched her wand in a death grip as she hung underneath her near-uncontrollable broom and waved it lightning-fast in a large pentagram.

_“Cittadellissimo!”_

It wasn’t the debut she’d planned for her Five-Layered Shield—a spell designed for impressiveness as much as practicality—but it was perfect for this situation. On her ballistic trajectory, chosen to avoid other possible traps, she flew near the ceiling, where the stalactites didn’t have as far to fall, and they whittled away the layers of her shield one by one slow enough for her to keep up with reforming them.

A minute later, she was falling towards the island at top speed and screaming her head off. She had just enough time to aim the still-bucking broom where she wanted to land and cast a powerful Banishing Charm. A dozen inferi toppled away like bowling pins, and the force of pushing against the ground slowed her fall until she dropped and rolled onto the ground.

“Hermione?!” Harry and Bill said in shock. And then, a moment later, they both shouted, _“Incendio!”_

Hermione spun around once and took in the scene. Harry and Bill were covered in scrapes and minor burns, but otherwise looking remarkably well for the circumstances, which meant they still didn’t look very good. They were barely holding the inferi at bay. Her timely arrival had probably saved them from being overrun from behind. Yet they were both pouring out more fire than she thought she would be capable of, and she hadn’t been poisoned. She rarely got a chance to see Harry fight all-out, but when he did, he was a powerhouse.

She ran to their side, and they stood back to back to back in a triangle, the box that she hoped contained the horcrux lying between their feet. Deciding quickly, she switched to her red oak wand in her left hand to cast an _Incendio_ , while with her right, she drew Snickersnack from its scabbard.

Her fire spells were indeed weaker than Harry’s or Bill’s—not exponentially so—probably not even by half, but they were weaker, just as she’d be slower than a trained sprinter or weaker than a wrestler in a higher weight class, and it make her a weak point. But Hermione was better-equipped. Snickersnack cleaved through the rotting flesh and bone of any inferi that got through her fire line like butter. It was unnerving, doing that. She’d never had cause to use her sword on a person before, and while the inferi weren’t alive, they looked similar enough to make her feel like she was cutting real people down with it. It wasn’t a good feeling.

She started by just cutting the inferi’s heads off, since she’d seen one or two zombie movies in her time. (And thank Merlin inferi weren’t contagious like horror film zombies.) But when she did that to the inferi, they just kept coming at her, headless, so she went for the arms and legs, or even across the lower torso.

“Hermione!” Harry said between curses. “Bill said to use fire—”

“No, she’s right,” Bill said. “If you can— _Incendio! —_ completely dismember them, they can’t get you— _Incendio! —_ but that’s hard with only a wand.”

Hermione had the advantage here in some ways, she thought as she sliced an arm and a leg of an inferius and toppling it over, whilst still struggling to maintain her fire line. The best and worst quality of inferi was that they were nothing but dumb beasts—the worst because they just kept coming no matter what, but best because they didn’t have the brains to avoid the most obvious of attacks. It still wasn’t easy. She tried to think of anything else she could do against them. Not many of her other curses applied, even her darkest curses.

 _“Non Perturbare!”_ she cast.

That helped. An Imperturbable Charm on the ground turned the ground frictionless, and that slowed down the inferi that were climbing out of the water, but the ones already on the island simply crawled over each other and kept coming. And she wouldn’t be able to maintain it over such a large surface area for long.

What else? Extract magnesium from the rocks? No, she’d probably just blow herself up doing that. Not enough carbon to make enough oil to get them all. Splitting water into hydrogen and oxygen? Same problem. She couldn’t think of any other way to fight them with magic. They were impervious to most normal spells.

Meanwhile, Harry kept casting fire curses for a minute, but then, he yelled, “I’ve got an idea! Cover me!”

Harry stopped casting and then, to Hermione’s surprise and Bill’s horror, picked up a handful of ash from the burnt bodies at his feet. Hermione and Bill cast even harder to stop the renewed intensity of the assault. Harry was waving his wand over the ashes.

“Harry, what are you— _AUGH!_ —doing?” Hermione asked as she burnt one inferi and sliced another.

“Those nanowire things you used in the Department of Mysteries,” he said. “You showed me how to make them. I figured we could tangle them up or something.”

Hermione soon realised he had rearranged the atoms in the ashes to make a spool of very fine nanotube wire like her tripwires, and he began levitating it and unspooling it over a group of a dozen or so inferi. “I don’t know if that’ll work without a source of tension—” she started.

Harry quickly pulled the floating tangle of wire down on the inferi, and they became caught in it instantly, the loops cutting deep into their rotting flesh and in some places sawing off whole body parts every time they moved. As they struggled against each other, it cut even deeper, but it seemed to catch against their bones. They were maimed by deep gashes, but not dismembered, and they kept shambling towards the trio.

“Stop them!” Hermione warned. “They’ll slice _us_ up with those wires as easy as they do themselves!”

All three of them turned their strongest fire spells on that group, and they were burnt to ashes before they could reach them.

“Sorry,” Harry said.

“It made sense,” she admitted. “ _Incendio!_ It’s like Shadow Square wire in _Ringworld_. It’s just not strong enough— _Incedio!_ ”

She tried to think. Could she improve it? She’d calculated before that a wire about a quarter of a millimetre in diameter was strong enough to cut an unprotected human clean in two with enough force behind it. It was just that the shambling inferi weren’t _putting_ enough force behind it as they moved. If only they had something sharper, like that razor wire the military used these days.

Wait, that was it!

“Cover me!”

She dropped her sword, dropped down on her hands an knees and grabbed two handfuls of ash.

A millimetre wide, a tenth of a millimetre thick, a diamond-shaped cross-section not too different from her sword, giving the same cross section and strength as the wire, but massively greater cutting power. It would work. At that thickness, two hundred metres of the stuff would only weigh a few ounces.

She couldn’t touch it. It would cut her fingers clean off with the lightest tug, like the poor child in Niven’s book. When she got home, she was making some nanotube mesh gloves so she could actually handle the stuff, but for now, she levitated it, like Harry had, using both wands for precision work as she shaped it. She didn’t bother with a spool—just a coil, but she was careful about how she designed it. It wasn’t spring-loaded like razor wire was, but it _could_ unfold like an accordion. She was ready.

She stood up, her face a mask of determination that spelt doom for any enemy who crossed her, if the inferi had any brains to read it. “Stay close to me,” she ordered with such conviction that Harry and Bill press against her sides without thinking, still spraying fire as fast as they could. “When I give the signal, drop the fire and duck, okay?” she said.

“Um, sure,” Harry said.

“Okay, but this better be good,” Bill agreed.

_“NOW!”_

As soon as Harry’s and Bill’s heads dropped below her arm level, Hermione spun in a circle, swinging her arms around, and the razor thread uncoiled and dropped onto the inferi. She couldn’t see it, in the darkness, but she knew where it was: two hundred turns of razor thread a foot wide, spaced a few inches apart in a circle twenty feet in diameter. The now-unhindered inferi shambled into it, getting tangled worse than Harry’s attempt had done. The corpses strained against the wires again, but this time, just when she thought the sight couldn’t get any more horrifying, it only took a few seconds before dozens of Inferi simply fell to pieces, leaving nothing but writhing piles of rotting flesh.

 _“My God,”_ Bill gasped, while Harry squeaked—actually _squeaked_ —in horror.

Not that Hermione didn’t.

The next wave of inferi behind the dismembered ones tried to fill in the gap. Harry and Bill raised their wands again.

“No. Banishing Charms,” Hermione ordered, “and not too strong, either. We don’t want to break the wire.”

The coils of razor thread were still lying there on the ground, tangled with the writing flesh. With weak banishing charms, they pushed the coils back into the next wave of inferi. The new inferi got their feet caught in it and tripped, tearing themselves apart from the bottom up.

And that was enough that Hermione lost her supper. None of the other horrors she’d witnessed this night had been enough to do it, but that sight did it. Moments later, Bill started dry heaving. Even the hardened Cursebreaker couldn’t stand it. Harry followed not long after. When Hermione collected herself, she was horrified to see Harry had vomited up a large amount of glowing green sludge. When she looked at Bill, he was still dry heaving and sweating profusely. He looked dehydrated.

“Oh, Harry, you stupid, selfless—” she muttered before they needed another round of Banishing Charms for the inferi.

The dead bodies fell again and again to the razor thread. There were so many. They banished the dismembered parts into the water so they wouldn’t be buried under them. They just kept tearing them apart in wave after wave. It was just as horrible to watch every time. Razor thread would never be this effective against wizards, Hermione was sure—or muggles either except in the direst of circumstances, or indeed, even against dumb animals that had a modicum of self preservation. But the inferi were cursed not only to act like dumb animals, but to keep attacking with a ravenous bloodlust no matter what happened. So the just kept coming and coming until finally…they stopped, and the lake turned disturbingly calm again.

“They’re…they’re gone,” Harry whispered.

“K-killed them all…” Bill rasped. Hermione looked at him and saw he was on his hands and knees staring out at the lake in horror, shaking badly. “H-hundreds of them…killed them…”

Even Hermione hadn’t been able to get an accurate count, but she thought there had been about three hundred inferi. Three hundred people that You-Know-Who had killed and turned into his sick puppets. It nearly made her vomit all over again to think about it, so she forced the thought down.

“Harry, you got the horcrux?” she asked.

“It’s in the box,” he said. He picked up the carrying case and rattled it as a demonstration.

“We should go, then. Bill?”

Bill turned and looked up at her, and Hermione was taken aback when she saw the look in his eyes: he was _scared_ of her. That was _not_ something she was prepared for.

“Harry?” she said helplessly.

Harry helped Bill to his feet and supported him on his shoulders over to the boat. Hermione took the horcrux. The man looked dead on his feet, and Harry didn’t look much better. Fortunately, the boat was still intact, but it could still only take two of them. Bill practically fell into the boat and lay on his back. Harry gripped the prow and leaned over.

“Harry, are you going to be okay?” she asked.

“D-don’t know…” he muttered. The adrenaline was wearing off.

“Harry, that potion…it made you see your worst memories, didn’t it?”

He looked up in surprise: “How did you know?”

“I wasn’t sure, but I heard Bill screaming.” Unfortunately, she didn’t think a Patronus Charm would help with _that_. “How much did you drink?”

Harry shrugged: “‘Bout a third as much as he did. Still felt like I was dying.”

“Okay, you’ll have to take the boat. Take the horcrux, too, just in case. Bill, is it safe to go in the water?”

Bill didn’t answer.

“Bill!”

Bill was shaking at the bottom of the boat. He looked delirious and unresponsive. He was still sweating, though she didn’t know where the sweat could be coming from after what the purgative seemed to have done. His eyes were sunken, and the glowing remnants of the potion made him look like a corpse.

“We’ve got to get him out of here!” Hermione said. “And the boat’s too slow. I’ll have to risk it. Harry, find that rope he had.”

Harry flopped into the boat and searched his robes, pulling it out. Hermione tied it tight around her waist and tied the other end to the prow of the boat, and she held her broomstick with her other hand, just in case. “Banishing Charms again,” she said. “Push it along. The boat’s too slow on its own. And get him some water.”

 _“Aguamenti!”_ Harry said. “Damn it, _Aguamenti!_ _”_ Harry had apparently conjured another goblet and was trying to fill it with water.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione asked.

“The water’s vanishing when I try to fill it. Look!” He demonstrated again, and Hermione saw the water vanish the moment Harry poured it into the goblet as fast as if he were pouring it into a sieve.

“It must be the cave,” she said. “It’s still trying to screw us.”

“But the lake’s not vanishing,” he said. He started to dip the goblet into the water.

“Are you crazy? That’s had dead bodies in it— _cursed_ ones!” she gasped. “That could kill him the same as the potion. _I_ probably shouldn’t even—Of course, _Ebublio!_ ” She cast a Bubble-Head Charm so that she wouldn’t get any water in her nose or mouth. She was relieved that it worked. “We have to get him back to Fleur and Sirius.” She jumped into the water. It was even colder than outside. “Push us off.”

The boat lurched and started to move. The now-empty lake offered no resistance to Hermione, half-floating on her back and doing her part to push them along. With Banishing Charms, it took less than five minutes to get them to shore, but casting Banishing Charms continuously for five minutes was still no picnic, especially after all the fighting they’d done. Hermione was exhausted by the end of it, and Harry looked ready to pass out. When they reached the shore, Hermione grabbed her Mylar blanket and directed Harry to push them along the shore in the boat. It would have taken too long to dragged Bill along the edge on foot. She ran alongside on the narrow catwalk, pulling the boat with Summoning Charms. Again, there was no disturbance from the lake.

Finally, they reached the entrance. Hermione pricked her finger to open the archway, and she and Harry carried Bill up and out of the water and down to the tunnel. The tide was still out, thank Merlin, although with Bubble-Head Charms, she realised it had never been quite as urgent as she’d thought. She cast a Bubble-Head Charm on Bill anyway, since he couldn’t keep himself afloat.

On the outside of the tunnel, they came out into the crashing waves once again, and Hermione did her final trick. Her abused broomstick was waterlogged and on its last legs, but she managed to load all three of them onto it and lift them up to the rock outcropping where they’d first arrived.

“Don’t want to try Side-Along from water yet,” she grunted. “Harry, how’s your Apparition?”

“Good enough,” he said.

“Good. I’ll take Bill. Back to Sirius’s place on three. One…two…three!”

* * *

The trio reappeared, filthy, soaking wet, and half frozen in Sirius’s living room and collapsed to the floor.

“Harry!”

“Bill!”

“Hermione!”

Sirius, Fleur, George, and Fred rushed forward to help them up. George hugged Hermione, heedless of the grime she was covered in, then checked her over to she if she was alright. Of course, she was in the best shape of the three—mostly just exhausted. “Help Bill,” she said.

 _“Mon Dieu!”_ Fleur gasped, holding Bill. “What ‘appened to him?” She looked up at Hermione with fire flashing in her eyes: “What did you _do?_ ”

“He drank two litres of a dark potion and then a purgative and then fought an army of inferi, the idiot,” Hermione said. The others gasped in horror, but she didn’t have time for them. “Someone bring water. Hurry,” she said. She looked at Bill again. “And salt. He’ll need salt.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cittadellissimo: Pseudo-Italian construction indicating the greatest possible citadel.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: One, two! One, two! And through and through, JK Rowling went snicker-snack!
> 
> Parts of this chapter are quoted from Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Hermione dug through her expanded handbag and found a first aid manual, which she frantically flipped through to find the page she needed. “Come on, come on, where is it…” she muttered to herself. “Aha! Oral rehydration therapy—oh, I’ll need sugar, too. And…baking soda? Yes, baking soda. And I think I still have that potassium chloride—yes, there it is. Harry, did you ever give Bill that bezoar?”

“Crap!” Harry said. “Didn’t have time when the inferi attacked.” He rushed over to Fleur and gave her the bezoar. She used a spell to make Bill swallow it while she was trying to clean him up.

“What about you, Harry?” Sirius said.

“I’ll live,” he said.

“You drank that potion, too,” Hermione sniffed. “You’d better give him one too, Sirius, if you have one. We still don’t know what the hell that _was_. If either of them get worse, we’ll have to take them to Snape. Now, one litre of water,” she read from the page and mixed the ingredients. “Two point six grams of table salt. Two point nine grams of baking soda. One point five grams of potassium chloride.” She thanked God she’d never bothered to take that out of her stuff after her project on Gamp’s Law. She guessed Healers had fancy potions to deal with this, but they didn’t have any on hand. “And thirteen point five grams of…glucose…hmm…If glucose is not available, an equal molar fraction of twenty-five point two grams of sucrose may be substituted.”

She spooned six teaspoons of sugar into the bowl of water and stirred, then offered it to Bill. He was barely responsive, but he drank it so greedily that Fleur had to slow him down, and Hermione started mixing a second bowl at once.

“Hermione, are _you_ okay?” asked George when she final got a moment to stop and rest.

“Yes, I’m fine, George…Well, physically, anyway. I barely got hurt at all down there.”

“I’m confused,” said Fred. “If Bill needs water, why are you giving him salt?”

“Basic first aid training. He’s sweated out most of the salts in his system,” she said. “If his sodium and potassium levels drop too low, it could make his nervous system fail and stop his heart.” The Twins gasped in horror, but she reassured them, “Don’t worry, muggles figured out how to treat this ages ago. He’ll be fine.”

Harry, meanwhile, was given a much milder purgative potion followed by a bezoar and a bowl of Hermione’s rehydration solution. Sirius insisted on treating him and getting him cleaned up before they told their story, and not without reason. It was pretty clear that You-Know-Who’s potion had aggravated the dehydrating effect of the purgative in some way. It would be just like him to cut off the first-line method of treatment. Of course, there were any number of reasons vomiting might not be the best treatment for poisoning, but it would have seemed logical for most potions.

“Stupid man,” Fleur chastised her husband. “You should ‘ave realised zee potion was a _d_ _éshydratant_.”

“Gah—Unknown potion…” Bill gasped. “Had to take the chance…”

“And _you—_ ” She glared up at Harry and Hermione. “You drag my ‘usband off on some mission and nearly get ‘im killed—”

“Fleur—” Bill stopped her. “Not their fault…Had to do it.”

“And you didn’t tell me why,” she said.

“We had to get an artifact that we need to defeat You-Know-Who, Fleur,” Harry said. “That’s what we were working on with Dumbledore…” He trailed off as she didn’t look convinced. “Sirius, should we tell her?” he asked.

Sirius looked at Hermione, who shrugged. Fred and George didn’t react. “She is a Gringotts employee,” Sirius answered. “She knows how to keep a secret.”

Bill nodded and pulled Fleur’s head down towards him. He whispered in her ear, and she turned very pale.

 _“Non!”_ she gasped, but he nodded his affirmative.

_“Plus d’un?”_

_“Oui.”_

_“Mais combien?”_

_“Six,”_ he lied. “This is the fourth.”

“So…you will ‘ave two more of zese missions?” she said worriedly.

“One,” Hermione corrected. “One is You-Know-Who’s snake. He keeps it with him. The other…unfortunately, the other we don’t have any leads at all.”

“Well, we know what it is,” Harry pointed out. “Helga Hufflepuff’s Cup.”

“Yes, but we don’t know where. You-Know-Who stole it fifty years ago.”

“Just have to…figure something out…” Bill said weakly.

Luckily, Harry and Bill seemed to be recovering from the effects of the potion. Nonetheless, Sirius insisted on a consultation with Snape before letting them go, and Fleur concurred. Harry achieved this by calling Ginny on his mirror and asking her to talk to him. This was singularly unpleasant. Ginny chewed out him, Bill, and Hermione for all of their real and perceived mistakes on the mission until she sounded like she herself wasn’t sure whom she was angriest at for getting whom hurt. After that, Harry told her to take the mirror to Snape in secret, which she reluctantly agreed to.

“Fine. But if he kills me, I’m haunting you,” she huffed.

When they spoke to Snape, he was naturally unhappy at being disturbed, and he was downright livid when Harry described the events in the cave. “Idiot boy!” he snapped. “Why must you be so infuriatingly noble? You’re exceedingly lucky you didn’t find yourself trapped in that cave, unable to move until you were torn to pieces!”

After sitting through yet another drawn-out rant, they managed to wheedle out of Snape that no, if they’d recovered thus far, they didn’t need any additional treatment. He recognised the potion, and it was designed to torture, not to kill. Somehow, that didn’t make anyone feel better.

“Well, that’s that, then,” Sirius concluded. “Rest tonight. Tomorrow, we’ll see if we can sort all this out.”

* * *

The next morning, the group gathered again after breakfast—everyone outside of Hogwarts who knew about the horcruxes aside from You-Know-Who himself. Now that they were rested, though Harry and Bill were still weak, Sirius, Fleur, and the Twins were ready to hear the full story from start to finish.

Hermione, Harry, and Bill told them everything that had happened yesterday, starting with their arrival and their cautious ingress into the cave. Bill explained, with a few cursebreaking details for Fleur’s benefit, how the boat would only take him and Harry to the island, and Hermione explained in enough detail that she hoped her fellow magicals would understand the science, how she’d devised a way to talk to them. They relayed their argument over the potion and their efforts to find an alternative solution, and how Harry had finished the potion when he couldn’t stand hurting Bill with it anymore. (Bill called him a selfless Gryffindor idiot, to general agreement.)

When the inferi attacked, Hermione described her insane kamikaze flight to reach the boys, causing jaws to drop around the room.

“You mean you flew blind, hanging under your broom through a hail of falling rock and dove from a hundred feet in the air into a swarm of flesh-eating inferi to save our brother?” George summed it up.

Hermione shuddered at the memory: “Don’t remind me.”

“And you never wanted to try out for Quidditch?” he grinned.

“Ha! Forget Quidditch,” said Fred. “She should’ve played Creaothceann.”

“Boys,” she chided them, “just because I can do a few stunts doesn’t mean I actually _like_ flying— _mmph!_ ”

George cut her off with a searing kiss. “Sorry, Hermione,” he said when they broke apart, “but that’s got to be one of the most bad-ass and sexiest things you’ve ever done.”

At this, Harry broke out laughing. “Oh, that’s rich,” he said. “Just wait till you hear what she did to the inferi.”

She rolled her eyes: “You mean what _we_ did, Harry.”

“Oh? What did you do to the inferi?” Sirius asked with an edge to his voice.

“She _destroyed_ them, that’s what.” The voice was Bill’s, and it sounded hollow. He drew his knees up to his chin where he sat. “Three hundred inferi, and she tore them all to pieces in three minutes.”

“What?” they gasped.

“How?”

“What did you do?”

“That’s Dumbledore-level stuff, there.”

“Guys. Guys,” she cut them off. “It’s not like it sounds.” Seriously, was Fred comparing her with _Dumbledore?_ “I did it with a lot of help, and with Harry’s idea.”

“Yeah, but you did it a hell of a lot better than I did,” Harry insisted.

“Trust me, it was mostly you, Hermione,” Bill insisted. “I’ve seen a lot of scary stuff, but I’ve never seen anything that scary.”

“But just what did you do?” Sirius demanded.

“I made a coil of wire that was super-strong and flattened, with sharpened edges. I tangled the inferi in it, and it cut them to pieces,” she answered. “They didn’t understand, though, and it took an extensive explanation, with diagrams and a small demonstration, to get across just what she’d done. When she did, everyone looked a little more nervous around her. Bill still looked scared and more than a little worried about the implications.

“Okay, Hermione, I think you’ve gone past bad-ass into just plain terrifying,” George said.

“A tenth that many inferi should have killed you all,” Sirius pointed out.

“It really wasn’t as impressive as it sounds,” she insisted.

“Hermione, do you realise what that spell could _do_?” Bill said. “To a crowd or a building full of people.”

“Yes, Bill, I do,” she said firmly, “but people are smart enough to notice what’s going on, and wizards could easily find ways around it. Yes, it would be deadly in a fight, but that trick was uniquely suited to work against inferi.” That calmed them a little, but she still thought she’d gone up a level in their minds, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

“Okay, so that’s how you got out,” Sirius said when they were done. “Let’s see the horcrux now.”

Harry retrieved Hermione’s horcrux carrying case and unsealed it. From inside, he levitated a locket that looked very much like Hermione remembered Salazar Slytherin’s locket from the memories, and he laid it on the table.

“So zat ees eet?” Fleur asked.

“That’s it,” Harry confirmed.

“Is there anything inside?” asked Fred, half-joking.

“Besides looming death, you mean?” Harry pointed out.

Hermione shrugged as she looked upon it. “Might be useful to check,” she said. “You’ll want wands at the ready, though.”

They all looked at each other and reached a consensus, raising their wands. Hermione got her basilisk fang out in its protective case in case this went horribly wrong. Harry pointed his wand at the locket and cast, _“Alohomora.”_

The locket clicked open. They all flinched, but nothing else happened. There was a folded piece of parchment sitting between the locket halves.

“What’s that,” Hermione said as a sinking feeling began to creep up on her.

Harry summoned the parchment and opened it with hesitant fingers. His face fell.

“What is it?” Bill asked.

“It’s a note,” he said shakily, and he read it aloud:

 

_To the Dark Lord_

_I know I will be dead before you read this_

_but I want you to know it was I who discovered your secret._

_I have stolen the real horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can._

_I face death in the hope that when you meet your match,_

_you will be mortal once more._

_R.A.B._

 

Sirius fell out of his seat.

But Fleur provided a distraction when she shrieked in a bird-like screech of anger. “Eet’s a _fake_?!” she shouted. “My husband nearly died, and you didn’t even get zee real horcrux?!”

“Fleur, keep it down—” Bill said.

“I will _not_ keep it down, William Weasley. You go off on zis reckless mission without even telling me, poison yourself, and you don’t have anything to show for it?”

“Fleur, I’m sorry. We never could have predicted—”

“I am not angry with you, William. I am angry at this R.A.B. _chien_ who wasted all your work and blood. I love you too much to lose you like that.”

Bill opened his mouth to respond as she suddenly clung to him, but he was interrupted when Sirius said, “Regulus.”

Everyone stopped as they noticed Sirius had fallen and was still sitting on the floor. “Who?” Fleur said in confusion.

“R.A.B. is my brother…Regulus Arcturus Black.”

“Your _brother_?” Harry gasped.

“I told you about him, did I? The one who turned Death Eater, and You-Know-Who killed him? My God, I thought he’d just got cold feet, but this—he actually found out about the horcruxes and stole one…”

Hermione gasped: “Oh no. So You-Know-Who killed him, took the horcrux back, and hid it somewhere else?”

“Crap. If he did, we’re screwed twice,” George said. “How can we find it now?”

“Now, hold on. That doesn’t make sense,” Harry said. “If Regulus stole one, he could have found out about the others and tipped someone off to them. Why wouldn’t You-Know-Who have hidden all of them again?”

“But if Regulus _didn_ _’t_ find out about the others, did he?” said Sirius. “I mean, it sounds like the idiot thought the locket was You-Know-Who’s only horcrux. I mean, if we’re really lucky, Regulus _did_ manage to destroy it, and You-Know-Who really _did_ kill him for getting cold feet, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“I don’t know,” Harry countered. “We still found the _fake_ locket. If You-Know-Who found out it was tampered with, he wouldn’t’ve just left it there.”

“True…I don’t know. We need to find out if Regulus actually destroyed the locket.”

“But how?” asked Hermione. “Regulus is dead.”

“Yes…” Sirius said slowly. “But there is something. It’s a long-shot, but there’s one person still alive who knew Regulus well—as much as it pains me to ask him.”

“Who?”

“ _Kreacher!_ ”

There was a loud crack, and Kreacher appeared in the room. “Blood traitor master calls Kreacher?” he muttered to himself. “Why does he do it? Master says the house is unsafe and leaves Kreacher there for months. Why does he call now?”

“Kreacher, listen to me,” Sirius snapped. “I have questions for you.”

“Kreacher will answer master if he can,” the elf spoke a little louder. “Kreacher lives to serve the House of Black.”

“Sure, you do,” Sirius sneered. “What can you tell me about how Regulus died, Kreacher?”

Kreacher’s eyes bulged horribly at once and looked like they would pop out of his head. “C-c-c-can’t—can’t say—” he ground out, and he started crying.

“Kreacher?” Sirius said in surprise. “Kreacher, what is this? What are you crying about?”

“Sirius,” Hermione chastised softly.

Kreacher dropped down and banged his head on the floor. “Can’t—say—” he croaked. “Master Regulus—ordered Kreacher—not to tell— _agh!_ ”

“Kreacher, stop that!” Sirius snapped. He froze, still lying on the floor. “Regulus ordered you not to tell me how he died?”

“Not to tell any of Master’s family,” Kreacher muttered.

“Of course, it had to do with the horcrux,” he said. “Anyone else in the family would’ve ratted him out to You-Know-Who in a heartbeat.”

“But Sirius, you’re his master now. Can’t you override Regulus’s order?” Hermione asked.

“I could try, but look at him. The stress might kill him. Elves don’t do well with conflicting orders.”

They stared at each other in silence. Hermione had never really seen that problem with Dobby, but Dobby wasn’t normal, and she _had_ seen it with Sonya on occasion. An elf who was abused, but still loyal, like Kreacher, might be much worse. But then, she remembered a particular incident involving Sonya, when she tried to disobey orders from Umbridge. “He can tell Harry,” she said. “Sirius, order him to tell Harry.”

“Um…okay,” he said. “Kreacher, I order you to tell Harry how Regulus died.”

Kreacher looked up at him and then at Harry. He looked relieved—as much as he ever did. “Master orders Kreacher to tell half-blood spawn. Kreacher must obey,” he said to himself.

 _Oldest trick in the book,_ Hermione thought. Literally. It was in the _Epic of Gilgamesh_.

“Master Regulus served the Dark Lord faithfully,” Kreacher said, staring at Harry. “He was so proud to serve, and the Dark Lord liked his loyalty. One day, the Dark Lord came to Master Regulus and asked for the service of an elf.”

“You-Know-Who needed an _elf_?” Harry said, and most of the room was equally surprised. You-Know-Who didn’t seem like the type to even think about elves.

Kreacher didn’t answer Harry, though. He curled in a ball and started rocking back and forth. “Master Regulus was honoured to offer Kreacher,” he said. “He ordered Kreacher to do whatever the Dark Lord wanted and then to come home…The Dark Lord took Kreacher to a cave…”

Half the room gasped. So that was how Regulus found out.

“And there was a lake,” Bill said.

“Yes. And a boat…and an island…and a…p-p-potion…the Dark Lord made Kreacher drink it.”

“All of it?” Hermione squeaked.

“Mudblood speaks to Kreacher,” he growled. “Kreacher does not answer to her.”

“Kreacher, answer her question,” Sirius ordered. “And don’t call her mudblood.”

“The Dark Lord made Kreacher drink all the potion. And Kreacher saw horrible things.”

“But how?” Hermione whispered. “That was three quarts.”

“So?”

“So, at his size, three quarts of _water_ should’ve killed him.”

Sirius shrugged and said, “Magic?”

“Worry about it later, Hermione,” Bill cut in.

She fell silent and let Kreacher continue his story: “Kreacher needed water. He drank from the black lake, but _hands! Hands!_ Dead hands reached up and dragged Kreacher under.”

“Good God,” Hermione said.

“How did you get away?” Harry whispered.

Kreacher suddenly became calmer and looked him in the eyes. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to come home.”

“Yes, but how did you escape the inferi?”

The elf didn’t understand the question. “Master Regulus ordered Kreacher to come home.”

“He means how did you get out of the cave, Kreacher?” Hermione clarified.

“Kreacher went home to Master Regulus.”

“He Apparated,” Sirius figured it out. “He didn’t have to go through anything.”

“But that doesn’t make any sense.” Hermione said. “Anti-Apparition Wards.”

“Kreacher Apparated to Master Regulus,” the elf confirmed.

“But you couldn’t’ve.”

“Elf magic is different, Hermione,” said Sirius.

“There are ways to stop elves from Apparating, too,” she insisted.

“Kreacher was not stopped. Kreacher went home to master.”

Her jaw dropped as it dawned on her. “But then…” she said. Then she shouted: “Elf Apparition wasn’t blocked?! You mean we could’ve had Dobby with us that whole time last night? That would have solved everything! Oh my God, I’m an idiot! And so’s You-Know-Who! How can someone as smart as him be so _stupid_?”

“Arrogance,” Harry said without missing a beat.

“Insanity,” Sirius suggested a moment later.

“Loss of humanity, I’d wager,” Bill said. “From all the horcruxes. But yeah, it sucks we didn’t have Dobby. I guess you didn’t think to ask?”

“I _did_ think of it!” she said. “I didn’t think it was worth asking. Now I feel like a total idiot, and you and Harry nearly died because of it.”

“Well…You more than made up for it with what you did to the inferi, Hermione,” Harry assured her.

“But—”

“Let’s just say what’s done is done and agree to always ask in the future,” said Bill.

Hermione sighed and nodded her agreement, although from the look on Fleur’s face, she didn’t think Bill’s wife would forgive her so easily.

“Okay, Kreacher, so you made it back,” Harry said, “but how did Regulus die?”

Kreacher started rocking again. “Master Regulus was very disturbed when Kreacher told him what happened. He spent a long time in the library, and after that, he ordered Kreacher to take him to the cave.”

“And he made you drink the potion again?” Harry asked.

“N-n-no…”

Hermione gasped, and Sirius said, “Merlin’s beard! _Regulus—?_ Why…? How…how was that idiot not a Gryffindor like me?

“Master Regulus was loyal to his family,” Kreacher answered with a sneer at Sirius. “But he was very worried about what the Dark Lord had done. He ordered…Kreacher to switch the locket in the basin…with another one just like it…and to destroy it…and to never tell Mistress…what he had done.” He was sobbing, now. “Master Regulus was not strong enough…he ordered Kreacher…to leave without him…when the hands dragged him down…”

Finally, Hermione was overcome by emotion, and she cried out, “Oh, Kreacher!” and tried to wrap her arms around him in a hug. This did not have the desired reaction.

He kicked her in the face.

True, a kick from a house elf hurt no more than a kick from a petulant three-year-old, but it was the principle of the thing. Kreacher scratched at himself like he was trying to get something filthy off himself and groaned, _“The Mudblood touched Kreacher, he will not allow it, what would his Mistress say?”_

“Don’t call her mudblood,” Sirius repeated, but Kreacher was already banging his head on the floor. “And I forbid you to punish yourself. Waste of time. Where is the real locket now?”

“Gone,” Kreacher croaked.

“Gone? Gone where?”

Kreacher grumbled for a minute and answered, “Mundungus Fletcher.”

“Oh, for the love of Merlin,” Sirius spat. “We’re gonna need Mad-Eye. He’s the only one who can find him. Don’t mention the horcruxes, though. Just tell him we need Dung and leave it at that.”

* * *

“Here’s the thief,” Mad-Eye Moody growled, and he threw Dung at Sirius’s feet.

“Thanks, Alastor. I’ll take it from here,” Sirius told him.

“Gotcha,” he grunted. “Call me if any _real_ action comes up.”

“Will do.”

A few minutes later, and Dung was in Sirius’s flat being interrogated.

“You’ve got nothing on me,” he said.

“I’ve got a house elf who says you took a rare and valuable locket from my house,” Sirius said and held up the fake one. “A duplicate of this one. Where is it?”

“What’s it to ya?”

“It’s mine. I want it back.”

“That’s hippogriff dung, Black. You never wanted any o’ your family junk.”

“Maybe I changed my mind. So where is it?”

“What if I don’t say, huh? You gonna curse me? You’re a good guy.”

“I spent twelve years in prison for a crime I didn’t commit,” Sirius said with a manic grin. “That changes a man. There’s a lot I could do to a lowlife like you. And if I run out of ideas, I’m sure Hermione could think of some new ones.” Dung looked past Sirius to see Hermione standing behind him, glaring at him. She wanted to tell Sirius to leave her out of this, but she held her tongue. “Did you hear what she did to Dolohov last year?” he added.

Mundungus looked between the two of them fearfully. “Okay, okay, I was just jokin’,” he said. “Look, here. I still got the damn thing on me. No one trustworthy interested in buyin’ these days. Must be the Slytherin crest.” And then, from a hidden pocket of his robes, he miraculously produced the real horcrux. “Here, take it back if you want it so bad.”

Sirius grabbed the locket by the chain and handed it back to Hermione. “Thank you very much, Mundungus,” he said. _“Obliviate!”_

“For the record, I still don’t like memory charms,” Hermione said when he’d left.

“I had to do it,” Sirius said. “I didn’t take much—just his memories of the locket. Can’t risk anything getting out. So that’s it. Crisis averted.”

“I suppose so,” she agreed.


	55. Chapter 55

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling was not just following orders.
> 
> Parts of this chapter were quoted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

Hermione woke in a cold sweat, desperately grasped for her wand, and lit it to see her familiar bedroom at Prewett Manor. She gasped for breath as it took her a few moments to register that she was _not_ in fact, being set upon by a horde of flesh-rending pseudo-zombies amid a rain of falling body parts. She understood why Bill had been so rattled. Even though they’d won the fight in the cave, the sheer visceral horror of seeing hundreds of human bodies torn to bits haunted her.

With a sigh, Hermione turned over and tried to go back to sleep. Just before she did, she noted the book on her side table and shoved it onto the floor. _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore._ What a crock.

It was Rita Skeeter’s new tell-all book, and it was a “tell-all” that the woman must have been working on since long before Dumbledore’s death, maybe even during the forced sabbatical she had taken. What had possessed her to release it in the middle of a war, Hermione couldn’t fathom. Maybe bribed or threatened by Death Eaters, or maybe she was just that greedy. None of those would surprise her.

Skeeter quoted people who claimed to have known the Dumbledore to spin her tale, most notably Bathilda Bagshot, author of _A History of Magic_ and _Hogwarts, A History_. Hermione was torn. She of all people knew Dumbledore wasn’t as squeaky clean as most people thought, but she fumed when she saw Skeeter’s usual mix of half-truths, spin, and slanderous lies levelled at the man. She should have exacted more concessions from her when she discovered she was an unregistered animagus. Skeeter claimed, for example, that Dumbledore had been friends with Gellert Grindelwald in his youth, which was actually probably true; but also that he convinced Grindelwald to surrender without a fight in their famous duel as part of some grand conspiracy, which was almost certainly false—and that was just the start. Even worse was the blatant speculation of foul play in the death of his sister. She didn’t know why she even bothered trying to read it. She knew it would only make her angry, and in the pleasant climate, it wasn’t worth her time.

After finding the two horcruxes, this seemed like the calm before the storm to Hermione, but she was still very busy. They had a few housekeeping-type things to deal with in terms of the war effort. Like the fact that Harry still had never been bound against the Taboo and was instead silencing himself in his sleep to stay safe. They gathered the troops to take care of that, worried that You-Know-Who would come in force if he saw another person breaking the Taboo, but apparently as uncommon as it was, it was common enough that it didn’t raise flags, and they only had to deal with what seemed to be the two Death Eaters. They were lucky. She doubted that would work again if they had to repeat the process, even if they waited for months after the pair were bound, Obliviated, and hand-delivered to the Ministry.

Harry was safe after that, staying with Sirius for the time being, but to Hermione, it became even more urgent to find a better way to deal with prisoners. Right now, the best they could come up with was a futile “catch and release” policy, handing them over to the corrupt Ministry, which put them right back into circulation soon afterwards. As awful as it would be to kill prisoners, it seemed like there were no other options that would get them off the street for good. She had some ideas on that, but she was still scouring through medical references to piece together the information she needed to make it work.

* * *

Hermione next found herself in a spot of trouble in mid-June when she was slipping around muggle London, collecting newspapers. Ever since the Heaven’s Gate disaster and the occasional reports of Death Eater attacks in the muggle world, she’d been trying to keep up with the muggle news a bit more in her limited time. It wasn’t hard to get copies of the _Times_ or even the _New York Times_ by slipping off to muggle London. The Weasleys needed to make supply runs anyway, being so isolated, so it wasn’t much of an imposition.

Unfortunately, showing her face at all was dangerous these days, what with random attacks happening in daylight. She’d already been caught up in one once, so it wasn’t unreasonable to expect it to happen again.

The last time, it had been just two Death Eaters, hitting targets of opportunity. This time, it was still a hit and run attack, but there were four of them, and they seemed to be attacking a particular shop, presumably muggle-born-owned. A few people were fighting back, ineffectually. Hermione considered joining them, but then, she was spotted.

“It’s Granger!”

“Get her! Rookwood wants her dead!”

All four Death Eaters started running her way, curses flying around her, and she decided discretion was the better part of valour. She ran, the papers under her arm. She had to get out of the Alley.

Dobby. She wasn’t about to make the mistake of forgetting him again. But she couldn’t call him in the open. She remembered how that went when they were attacked by dementors way back in third year. She needed enough cover for him to Apparate in.

 _Just a few seconds_ , she thought. She conjured a cloud of smoke and ran into a shop to hide her movements. Inside, she vaulted over the counter with a skill that surprised even herself and dropped to the floor out of view. She couldn’t see the shopkeeper. They might have run for it.

“Dobby!” she called. When the elf popped into view, she didn’t give him time to speak before she grabbed his hand and said, “Get me out of here!” For once, her plan actually worked.

Once she came down from the adrenaline high, Hermione actually got to _read_ the newspaper. The most notable headline for her today was one that read, _MERCURY EXPOSURE KILLS DARTMOUTH PROFESSOR_. That was surprising. Of course, mercury was poisonous, but Hermione didn’t think a chemistry professor would make that kind of mistake in this day and age. Apparently, the mercury in question was dimethylmercury, though. She looked up the chemical and blanched. Dimethylmercury was absolutely _hideous_ stuff—more hideous than most of the awful magical poisons she’d learnt about in Potions and Herbology. A few drops were lethal through skin contact alone, _through latex gloves_. It took _ten months_ to kill the unfortunate professor and indeed, three months to even show symptoms. The only cure was chelation therapy, which was itself aggressive and somewhat dangerous and still had no guarantee of working.

And most frighteningly, it would be trivially easy for her to make by rearranging a few atoms.

She had no _reason_ to make it. A poison that took months to kill was useless as a weapon of war. The more salient question was whether she could _cure_ it. Death Eaters weren’t completely ignorant of the muggle world; Comet Hale-Bopp had proved that. For them, it would be a weapon of terror and assassination that they might actually _use_ —at least Rookwood probably would. A bezoar might cure it, although even then, she wasn’t sure if it would work on something so long-acting. A blood-cleansing charm? She’d probably have to rebuild her metal-filtering charm from the bottom up to work on live tissue, but it might be a worthwhile project.

And perhaps there were other obscure chemicals that could be more useful to her, she thought…

* * *

Despite some progress, as the Hogwarts term wrapped up, Hermione was waiting for the other shoe to drop. It always seemed to do in May or June, and while she didn’t consider herself superstitious, if felt like it was just about due. She was worried what form it would take with You-Know-Who in open war.

Finally, it happened.

Hermione was reading a book (not Skeeter’s) in the sitting room at Prewett Manor, when she heard the chime that signalled someone at the door. It was a Saturday night, one week before the end of the Hogwarts term, so George, Fred, Bill and Fleur was already there for a family dinner. Molly jumped at the chime. They weren’t expecting anyone, and hardly anyone ever came for Muriel. She hurried to the door and called, “Who is it?”

“Mum, it’s Percy,” a worried-sounding voice called back.

Molly gasped: “Percy?”

Percy must have anticipated her asking a security question because he said. “When I was five, I found Peter Pettigrew disguised as a rat in the garden. You and Dad only let me keep him as a pet because I was jealous over Bill being given an owl to take with him to Hogwarts. It’s me, Mum.”

Molly threw open the door and hugged her prodigal son. “Oh, Percy!” she cried.

Percy hugged his mother briefly. But she drew back in horror when she saw the state he was in. His robes were tattered, and he had cuts and burns on his face. He slumped against the door frame when she let him go. “Merlin’s beard! What happened to you?” she gasped.

“Spot of trouble at the Ministry,” Percy answered. “We’ll have to act fast. I barely made it out of the Ministry in one piece.” He pushed past her and waved a sheaf of parchment over his head. “We have a big problem,” he announced. “They’re going to round up the muggle-borns.”

Hermione squeaked, and everyone turned to look at her. “Percy, what’s happening?” she said

“What have you been _doing_?” Molly asked.

“Mum, listen to me. I’ve been gathering information on what the new administration is up to.” He leaned over a table and started spreading out pamphlets and posters. “That’s why I’ve been so long coming home. I had to make them think I’d really switched sides.”

Arthur sat down across from him. He looked remarkably calm given the circumstances, but he questioned Percy with an intensity Hermione rarely saw from the man. “You mean you haven’t—?” he said.

“No. Not since Scrimgeour was killed. Not _really_ since the Ministry declared You-Know-Who was back, but I was a pompous prat and too proud to admit I’d been wrong. I’m sorry—to all of you—and Harry too when I see him. I was a fool. I was an idiot. I was a…a…”

_“Ministry-loving, family-disowning, power-hungry moron,” said Fred._

_Percy swallowed._

_“Yes, I was!”_

_“Well, you can’t say fairer than that,” said Fred, holding out his hand to Percy._

Percy endured a quick round of hugs from his family, but he quickly got back to business. “Look, I wanted to tell you sooner. I tried to leave a hint with Fred and George when they cornered me.”

“We got the message, son,” Arthur said. “We didn’t like it, but we tried to be understanding.”

“What do you mean, you barely got out of the Ministry, Percy?” Molly said.

“It wasn’t easy finding all this information, Mum. It was scattered across half a dozen different departments, and they’re keeping it secret until they’re ready to release it. You-Know-Who has eyes everywhere, too. I’m pretty sure Thicknesse and the new Head of the DMLE are either Death Eaters or controlled by them. I got caught trying to dig up more information and had to make a break for it.”

“Oh, Percy!” Molly exclaimed. “Are you alright.”

“I’ll be fine. Wasn’t hurt too bad,” he grunted.

Then he fell over.

“Percy!”

Molly and Fleur sprang into action and helped Percy over to the sofa. He protested, saying they needed to get the message out, and Hermione was on his side, honestly, but they compromised with Molly treating his cuts and bruises as best she could while he sat and went through the stack of parchment. He was too absorbed in his investigation to complain about his mother doting on him.

“I had to finish building my case,” he said. “I thought if we could get in front of the Ministry and show the people what they’re _planning_ to do, it would break them out of their trance. I _hope_ it would’ve broken me out of mine. I _hope_ people won’t swallow this much at once.”

“I don’t know,” Hermione said. “People will swallow a lot. But _we_ need to prepare for what they’re doing either way.”

“What did you find?” Arthur said.

“It’ll start with these,” Percy said, and he threw two letter-sized posters on top of the pile. They were Wanted posters, featuring Harry’s and Hermione’s faces. Both of them had the header written over them:

 

_WANTED FOR QUESTIONING ABOUT_

_THE DEATH OF ALBUS DUMBLEDORE_

 

The Twins howled with outrage, but it made perfect sense to Hermione. She and Harry had been the first on the scene at Dumbledore’s death. The Ministry could plausibly try to argue that they hadn’t been truthful about their involvement.

“That’s just the start,” Percy cut back in. “After a few weeks, they’ll switch to these.”

The second pair of fliers were also Wanted posters, but on Harry’s poster, the header was changed to _UNDESIRABLE No.1_. Hermione’s read, _UNDESIRABLE No.2_. And at the bottom, they said, _REWARD: 10,000 GALLEONS ON HIS/HER HEAD._

“Wow, I’m an enemy of the state,” Hermione quipped. “Is it a bad thing that I feel weirdly proud.”

“Hermione, this isn’t a laughing matter,” George said. “They’re going to offer ten thousand galleons for you? That’s huge.”

“I’m aware of how serious it is, George, but you know, there’s an old maxim that says, ‘You can always judge a person by the quality of their enemies…’” she said with a forced smile.

“Well, if that’s true, then we’re all in the good books somewhere,” Percy said. “By the way, Dad, you’re being tracked.”

“Excuse me?” he said.

“They’re watching your movements in public, especially your contacts with ‘undesirables’. They can’t get here, and they’re not acting on it yet, but let’s just say it’s a good thing you’re already at a safe-house.”

“Goodness!” Molly said, slumping in her seat. “Arthur—”

“We’ll worry about it later, Molly,” he said in a voice that brooked no argument. “There’s a lot more here, Percy. What else is coming?”

“I don’t have a lot of the documentation on what they’re doing when, but I managed to save a few memos. _This_ is the centrepiece of the campaign their running this summer. Here, read it,” he said with disgust. The document he produced was the draft of an article in the _Daily Prophet_ —an article that hadn’t run yet. He handed it to Hermione. She frowned as she read it as if she were handling a particularly distasteful insect.

 

_Ministry Forms Muggle-Born Registration Commission._

 

“Oh, that’s a bad sign,” she said. _Muggle-Born Registration Commission._ Those were were words that just automatically sounded like bad news together—like _Committee on Un-American Activities_ or _Democratic People_ _’s Republic_.

 

_The Ministry of Magic is conducting a survey of so-called_ _“Muggle-borns,” the better to understand how they came to possess magical secrets._

_Recent research undertaken by the Department of Mysteries reveals that magic can only be passed from person to person when wizards reproduce. Where no proven wizarding ancestry exists, the so-called Muggle-born is likely to have obtained magical power by theft or force._

_The Ministry is determined to root out such usurpers of magical power, and to this end has issued an invitation to every so-called Muggle-born to present themselves for interview by the newly appointed Muggle-Born Registration Commission._

 

“Those bastards!” she spat. “No muggle-born will fall for this—no properly-educated muggle-born, anyway. _Invitation?_ Bollocks!”

Hermione had once seen a Holocaust survivor speak in school—in that year before Hogwarts when she started muggle secondary school a year early. She remembered the greying Polish woman describing how the Nazis had invaded her town, which was just over the Polish border, on the first of September, 1939. One day, somewhat later, they came to the Jewish quarter of the town and gave the order—she repeated it in Polish and English—“ _Wszyscy_ _Żydzi mogą wyjść_ —All Jews may come forth.” Many of the men did so, it being so early in the war that they didn’t know what it meant.

Those who did wound up in a mass grave by sundown.

“Yes, it’s a fairly obvious ruse,” Percy admitted. “But the Ministry’s been getting away with those for years. Most people don’t pay enough attention.”

“Not muggle-borns,” Hermione insisted. “I’m sorry, you wouldn’t know. You didn’t grow up in a muggle culture. This will trip our radar from miles away.”

“Radar?” Arthur said.

“Not important. It’ll be too obvious to ignore.”

“Anyway,” Percy said, “the Muggle-Born Registration Commission is the main thrust. Anyone who can’t prove magical ancestry will lose their wand and with it their job prospects, with worse penalties if they try to hide or resist, or—” Percy actually rolled his eyes. “—if they can be _proved_ to have stolen magic from someone.”

Hermione scoffed: “I’m sure a few _will_ be ‘proved’ so as to make an example of them.”

Arthur frowned. “That could be,” he said. “Maybe trot out a couple squibs to make claims about them having their magic stolen. The Death Eaters don’t like squibs either, but they’re opportunists.”

That made quite a lot of sense. “Honestly, stealing magic,” Hermione grumbled. “Even _I_ wouldn’t know where to start to do that even if I wanted to. It’s probably impossible.”

“It _is_ impossible,” George said. “You’re born with magic or you’re not.”

“Exactly. I suspect it’s a dominant gene that occasionally gets knocked out or goes inactive for a few generations,” she said.

George stared at her: “Hold up, could you _prove_ that?”

Hermione thought for a moment. “Probably yes…I’d need twenty years and a muggle genetics laboratory, but I could do it.”

The Weasleys were all surprised by that—both that she thought it was possible and that it would take so long. Unfortunately, it wasn’t at all _useful_ , so they couldn’t really say anything further.

“But stealing magic?” Fleur spoke up. “Everyone already knows zat ees impossible. Who would believe zat, even among purebloods?”

“They’re going to build it up slowly over the summer,” Percy explained. “Some of the worst bigots might already believe it, but they’ll spread rumours about what the Unspeakables are doing, run letters to the editor suggesting it, get opinions from ‘experts’ speculating on it, and so forth. By the time they run _that_ article, it’ll be in people’s minds, and they’ll be wondering about it. Then, they start the propaganda campaign.”

More pamphlets followed. One was titled _Mudbloods, and the Dangers They Pose to a Peaceful Pure-Blood Society_. It showed a picture of a young female face emerging from a red rose, which was being strangled by a green weed with fangs and a scowl. Another was _Mudbloods and How to Spot Them_ , which showed a half-dozen blood-red hands grasping towards a white-silhouetted wizard. _When Muggles Attack_ , had a shadowy, evil-looking man on the cover raising a knife above his head—a knife that just happened to be shaped like a lightning bolt. And _The Muggle Conspiracy_ had a plain grey cover reminiscent of a conspiracy theorist’s manifesto.

It was odd, Hermione thought. She’d been thinking about Nazis through all this, but the propaganda they were creating looked distinctly Soviet. Not that it made much difference.

“Once the propaganda sinks in,” Percy said, “they’ll move to the final phase.” The next pages were the worst yet—not pamphlets or articles, but blueprints and schedules—technical details of one very bad plan.

“The Mudblood Relocation Camp?” Hermione growled.

“Relocation camp?” Molly said, confused. “They want to put the muggle-borns on a campsite.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of camp, Molly,” Arthur said softly, showing a surprising amount of muggle awareness for him.

“No, Molly,” Hermione agreed. “Definitely not that kind of campsite. This kind is surrounded by barbed wire fences and filled with mass graves.”

Molly gasped softly. “Do you really think that, Hermione?” she asked. “I know You-Know-Who _wants_ to kill all the muggle-borns, but to get the Ministry to do it…?”

“It’s only one small step from a propaganda campaign to Ministry officials carrying out mass executions and saying, _‘I vas just folloving orders.’”_ She said the last bit in an exaggerated German accent.

 _“‘I vas just folloving orders?’”_ Percy asked in confusion.

Hermione sighed heavily: “Any muggle-born would know what that meant. Honestly, you got an O in Muggle Studies. You ought to—never mind. I’ll tell you later. What else do you have?”

“I didn’t see anything about mass executions here,” Percy cautioned, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if the camp was ‘attacked’ by Death Eaters at some point. The official story is that they’re building it because they’re anticipating not having enough room in Azkaban for muggle-borns who ‘stole’ magic…This is big enough to hold all the muggle-borns in the country.” He paused a minute to let that sink in. From that fact alone, the implications were obvious. “So…then there’s the changes they’re making at Hogwarts,” he continued awkwardly. “They’re doing the Educational Decree thing again.” He showed them:

 

_Educational Decree Thirty-Four: Hogwarts is the only educational institution accredited to the Ministry of Magic._

_Educational Decree Thirty-Five: Accredited education programs are forbidden to teach muggle-borns._

_Educational Decree Thirty-Six: Accredited educational institutions must submit their staff to review by the Ministry._

_Educational Decree Thirty-Seven: Accredited institutions must provide instruction in Muggle Studies to all students._

_Educational Decree Thirty-Eight: The Wizarding Examinations Authority will offer a Dark Arts qualification._

 

“They’re going to use Thirty-Seven to spread their propaganda at Hogwarts and Thirty-Four to enforce it on everyone this time. Thirty-Six lets them replace McGonagall with Snape as Head of Hogwarts.”

“But that’s okay, isn’t it?” Hermione said. “Snape’s on our side.”

“He still has to keep up appearances. And they can always appoint more Death Eaters to other posts. These decrees basically let them take total control of the school.”

“Can’t the Board of Governors overrule them? The Ministry can withdraw accreditation, but if they won’t accredit _anyone_ , people will just ignore them.”

“They could in principle, but the Death Eaters control the Board. They have the muscle to bribe, blackmail, and threaten the Board into submission, just like Lucius Malfoy did before they kicked him out.”

“But even Umbridge didn’t go that far,” she protested.

“Umbridge didn’t have an army…until now, anyway.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I haven’t told you the worst yet.” Percy looked around at his whole family, who were on the edges of their seats by now. “The Muggle-Born Registration Commission? I overheard Thicknesse saying he’s going to let Dolores Umbridge out of Azkaban to lead it.

 _“No!”_ Hermione shouted.

“They can’t do that!” Fred shouted.

“She had George whipped!” Molly cried.

“She _Crucioed_ a student!” George said.

“Yes. Yes to all,” Percy scowled. Hermione wondered how he felt about having supported the woman. “But the Unforgivable Curses might not be unforgivable for much longer. It’s part of the new push for the Dark Arts they’re making.” He pulled out some more articles with headlines like _What_ _’s so Dark About the Dark Arts?_ and _The Noble History of Dark Magic_.

“What’s this crap?” Fred demanded.

“Trying to make it like the Dark Arts are just misunderstood. Like how a lot of magic in the old days was ritual magic, or how the Killing Curse was invented for a good reason to fight muggles during the witch hunts.”

“That’s awful,” Molly said. “And they’re going to be teaching this to children?”

Percy nodded while Bill frowned in thought. “I hate to say it, but that’s a smart move on their part,” Bill said. “The scary thing is, they’re kind of half-right. After the last war, Dumbledore, Minister Bagnold, and Barty Crouch Sr. made a big push against the Dark Arts. They all had their own reasons, but they worked together on it. It wasn’t regarded as negatively before then.”

“That is true,” Arthur admitted. “That’s one of the reasons you hardly see ritual magic taught anymore.”

“Right,” Bill said. “But Aurors still use a fair amount of dark spells in a fight—the good ones, anyway, and Cursebreakers have to as familiar with it as your average Defence Professor. But _this_ —” He looked over the articles. “Allowing the Unforgivables is too far. The Dark Arts have their place, but there are lines you just don’t cross.”

“Well, they’re crossing them big time,” Percy said. “That’s what happens when the Ministry is run by Death Eaters. And that’s why they’re letting Umbridge out. She’s the most Death Eater-like non-Death Eater I’ve ever met, and I wish I’d seen that earlier. She’s the perfect person to go after muggle-borns. And if it’s muggle-borns now, you can bet it’ll be ‘half-breeds’ next.”

“Terrible,” Arthur said. “So what do we do?”

“I want to publish them,” Percy said at once. “All at once. Lay it all out and hopefully shake people out of their complacency.”

“The Ministry controls the _Daily Prophet_ , though,” George observed. “You won’t get them to print any truth.”

“I know. Hermione, as far as I know, _The Quibbler_ is still running. Can you get an article to them again?”

“Yes, easily,” she said. “But I think we should do more.”

“More? What do you mean?”

“Not many people read _The Quibbler_ regularly, even after Harry’s big interview. We should make an effort to get the word out to other muggle-borns by word of mouth at the very least.”

Percy nodded: “Yes, I can see that. That way they’ll be warned in advance to go into hiding when the time comes.”

“Or rather to get out of Britain now while they still can,” Hermione corrected. “Or better yet, join the Resistance.”

“Join the Resistance?” Molly said. “Since when is there ‘the Resistance’?”

“Just mention the words, ‘Mudblood Relocation Camp,’” Hermione said. “Trust me, Molly, there will be then. Every muggle-born will understand _that_.”

“Merlin’s beard,” she muttered. “And Percy, you really gave up your job for this?” Hermione had been equally surprised by that, and George and Fred were absolutely stunned. They never expected Percy to do anything like this.

Percy shook his head: “Mum, I’ve never had a _real_ job at the Ministry—not a worthwhile job, I mean. Mr. Crouch was Imperiused, Fudge was a joke, Scrimgeour only kept me around to get closer to Harry, and I’m pretty sure Thicknesse is Imperiused again. Beating You-Know-Who is more important.”

“Bloody hell, Perce, you finally got the stick out of your arse,” George said.

“Yes, yes, laugh it up,” he groaned.

Hermione waved at the Twins to back down and stepped forward. “We mean it, Percy,” she said, offering her hand to him. “You’ve done a great service for muggle-borns. Welcome to the Resistance.”

Percy looked at her in surprise for a moment. Hermione was arguably the person he’d hurt most in terms of her personal safety by sticking with Fudge for so long. He shook her hand in gratitude: “Thank you, Hermione.”

“Percy, what about your father?” Molly said. “Will he be safe to go back?”

“You don’t need to worry about that, Molly,” Arthur tried to assure her. He wasn’t convincing.

“I don’t know, Dad,” Percy said. “They’ll question you, for sure. It should be pretty clear I acted on my own. You can truthfully say I acted without your knowledge.”

“Arthur, I don’t think you should.” Molly said. “Merlin knows what we’ll do, but I don’t want you going back if it’s not safe.”

“Molly,” Hermione spoke up. “I’ve got money—more than I could possibly need. I know you won’t want to take it, but this is war. We have to get by however we can.”

“We’ve got money too,” Fred added. “The shop’s doing well.” _For now_ went unsaid, given the current climate.

“Boys. Hermione,” Arthur stopped them. “We don’t need to worry about all that yet. I’ll ask around with the other Order members to poke around to see if I’ll be allowed back. I figured I was being watched already. Percy’s right. They’ll know we weren’t talking to each other.”

“But if you’re going to publish this—” Molly said.

“He doesn’t need to be involved in that either, Molly,” Hermione said. “I can organise it, and frankly, he couldn’t stop me if he wanted.”

“That’s fair,” Arthur agreed. “What about Ron and Ginny, son?”

“They’ll be safe at Hogwarts until the end of term,” Percy said. “They won’t make any changes until summer. Come autumn…well, they’ll probably have bigger problems to worry about.”

“Yes. Percy’s right. We need to move fast,” Hermione agreed, standing up.

“So, Xeno Lovegood’s place, then?” Arthur asked.

“Not quite yet,” Hermione said. “Hogwarts first, I think.”

* * *

Through Ron and Ginny, Hermione called a full meeting of the D.A. the next day and sneaked a newly-informed Harry into the castle with her. The group was back up to about thirty now, still bound by magical contract to keep it a secret. And predictably, they were disproportionately muggle-born, which was a good thing.

“Alright, everyone, listen up,” Hermione addressed the group. “This isn’t a training session today. This is a warning—a warning for all of you, but especially for my fellow muggle-borns. Everyone here should know the truth by now: the Ministry of Magic is compromised—Death Eaters running the show behind the scenes…We have now been given a secret dossier about what this Ministry is planning for the coming months. We plan on releasing this information to the public soon, but we want to control how we do it. So be careful about who you tell it to…Many Bothans died to bring us this information.”

The muggle-borns laughed, albeit nervously, but the rest of the group looked worried.

“Huh? Who died?” Neville asked.

“What’s a Bothan?” said Ginny.

“Sorry. Muggle joke. No one died. Our informant did get hexed pretty badly, though.” Most of the group still looked cheerful. She looked around at the people who had laughed. Many of them seemed young. Dennis Creevey was only a third-year, and he wasn’t the only one anymore, although she’d got up to all sorts of trouble younger than that. And now, she had to drop a big bombshell on them. “The muggle-borns are going to have to go into hiding,” she said seriously.

The meeting immediately sobered up. “What do you mean? Why?” asked Justin Finch-Fletchley.

“Three words: Mudblood Relocation Camp.”

The muggle-borns paled and gasped in horror as the words sunk in. The Creevey Brothers cursed loudly, and Anthony Goldstein exclaimed, “No! They wouldn’t!”

“I’ve lived here as a muggle-born for six years, Anthony,” Hermione said. “Trust me, they would.”

“But that’s mad!” said Dean Thomas. “British people won’t stand for that.”

Anthony shook his head: “British _wizards_ would, Dean. Not enough of us get it. A lot of us don’t even know what they did to Jews during Grindelwald’s War. I just didn’t think the Death Eaters would sink that low.”

“Death Eaters don’t have a limit to how far they’ll sink,” Harry said darkly.

“What’s this all about, Anthony?” said a younger Ravenclaw Hermione didn’t know. It was strange not to know all of the D.A. by name anymore.

“You can explain it later if that’s alright, Anthony,” she interrupted. “I have a lot of ground to cover, and some of it affects the purebloods, too.” She explained in brief the other intelligence Percy had collected: the anti-muggle propaganda, the changes to Hogwarts’ curriculum, and Snape as Headmaster (this elicited howls of protest, the loudest from Ron and Neville). By the time she was done, everyone was well aware of how serious this was.

“So what do we do?” asked Parvati, looking to Hermione.

Hermione looked to Ron and Ginny as the leaders of the D.A., but to her surprise, Ginny looked to Neville. Neville didn’t hesitate when he saw her looking to him. “We keep fighting,” he said. “Any way we can. We help muggle-borns, sabotage the Death Eaters, get the word out—although I guess Harry and Hermione are doing that?”

“And what do we muggle-borns do?” asked Sally-Anne. “We can only do so much to hide, especially the younger ones.”

“My family doesn’t even know most of it because I haven’t been fool enough to tell them,” Dean pointed out.

“Then it’s time to be honest with them, Dean,” Hermione said. She looked around at the muggle-borns again. “I’m sorry, but you won’t be able to stay at home. The Ministry knows where most of us live. And Hogwarts knows where _all_ of us live. My parents tried to stay at home, and they’re dead now.” She felt a little bad about lying about her parents like that, but it probably would have happened sooner or later. The other muggle-borns shivered. “Get out. Make yourselves Untraceable, or find someone you trust who can do it for you. You can try to fake your family history, but you’ll be in that much more trouble if you get caught. I could probably fake a relationship to Hector Dagworth-Granger, but I’m not going to. You-Know-Who already wants me dead.”

“I’ll find a way to hide you, Sally-Anne,” Lily Moon said. “My family has connections.”

“I’m going to talk to my family,” Anthony said firmly. “I’ll make sure we find a way to help as many as possible. My grandparents nearly died in Grindelwald’s War. They’ll understand.”

Several of the other D.A. members expressed similar intentions to hide muggle-borns or help them go into hiding. It heartened Hermione to see it. She had high hopes for this group. “Alright, that’s all I have for you,” she concluded. “Spread the word to the other muggle-borns, but don’t let it go any further. We’re going to try to make this public within the week, and we want a clean slate when we do.” The meeting started to break up, and she added, “Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna, and the Creevey Brothers, stay behind, please.”

They did, and the group dropped down to eight. Ron and Ginny looked a little surprised that she invited Colin and Dennis. “Okay, the first thing we need to decide is how we’re going to get the word out,” Harry said.

“Luna, how does your father feel about the current situation?” Hermione asked. “Can we still print in _The Quibbler?_ ”

“Oh, certainly,” Luna said. “Dad is against You-Know-Who. He’s going to keep publishing against him as long as he can. We’d be happy to print your information.”

“Good,” Harry agreed. “And you’d better make it a special edition. We can’t afford to wait until the next issue.”

Luna nodded in agreement: “I’ll write him a letter. But you two can probably visit him in person sooner. Do you want to bring in Rita Skeeter again?” asked Luna.

“After the hit piece she did on Dumbledore? Hell no,” Hermione said. “We’ll manage on our own. What about photos? Do you take them?”

“We’re always happy to take freelance submissions. Unfortunately, we can’t really pay anyone for them.”

“That won’t be a problem, Luna,” she replied. “That’s why I invited Colin and Dennis. Colin, this offer is mostly for you. I have a job I’d like to hire you for. It’ll be dangerous, and if you get caught, they’ll probably kill you.”

Colin stared at her with wide eyes. “What is it?” he said.

“A war photographer.”

Colin and Dennis looked at each other with a manic excitement. “Bloody hell,” Colin said. “How does that work? What do you need me to do?”

“Basically, when an attack happens, you have to go in, get the photos, and get out fast, before you can be caught. Sonya will be able to help you with that. She might need to help you go into hiding as it is. The idea is to show people the horrors of war—people like the ‘loyal’ purebloods who wouldn’t normally see it, I mean—or who would otherwise think it’s justified. We need to bring more people to our side with things like that. It’s that kind of thing that helped kick off the muggle anti-war movements of the sixties and seventies.”

She realised Harry was staring at her. “What?” she asked.

“Nothing. It’s just that you’ve thought a lot about this,” he said. “You’re way ahead of me.”

“Don’t worry, Harry. There’s plenty for you to do, too. So Colin, are you willing to do this.”

Colin agreed worryingly fast. “Yeah, I’ll do it,” he said. “I really wanna stop those bastards.”

“Me too!” Dennis piped up.

“Good. Just be careful. Make sure Sonya is on hand in case of emergency, but have another backup plan on top of that. You can talk to Luna more about it later. Right now, Harry and I need to talk to the others in private.”

Colin and Dennis agreed and left the room, leaving just six of them. “Okay, then,” Harry said. “So Ron, Ginny, there’s something else you should know. Our informant in the Ministry who dug up all this information? It was Percy.”

Ron and Ginny gasped. “Percy?!”

“Yeah. He’s okay, but he won’t be able to go back to the Ministry.”

“Percy quit his _job?_ ” Ginny gasped.

“Yeah, you should’ve seen him, you two,” Harry said. “He’s been gathering this information for months, and he came in and said beating You-Know-Who was more important and everything.”

“No way!” Ron protested. “Are you sure that was Percy?”

“We told you about the hint he gave to George and Fred,” Hermione pointed out. “He was really serious about getting their dirty secrets out.”

“Bloody hell! Who would’ve thought?”

“So if Percy’s in trouble with the Ministry, what about Dad?” Ginny said worriedly.

“We don’t know yet,” said Harry. “He’s gonna talk to Kingsley and some other people in the Order to try to find out if it’s safe. He says he’ll work it out. And you’ll be safe here for the rest of term. After that, we’ll probably all have more to worry about.”

“Well, I don’t think I’m coming back anyway,” Ginny said firmly.

“What? Ginny!” Ron said.

“Oh, like _you_ _’re_ coming back,” she said.

“Well…maybe not, but—”

“But nothing. I’ve got my O.W.L.s. Our family might be going into hiding as it is. Harry and Hermione are going to be going off fighting You-Know-Who. I’m not letting them go alone.”

“But you’re underage. You can’t do magic.”

Ginny laughed: “Ron, I had Hermione take the Trace off me at New Year’s.”

Ron gaped at her, but Hermione felt the need to clarify her. “Just so you know, this won’t be a job of traipsing around the country for months, camping out, and looking for the…” She glanced at Luna and Neville. “… _items_ we need. We have one item to find that we have absolutely no leads on, and most of the rest of it will be me doing research.”

“But what about finding new ways to fight, like Neville said?”

“We’ll do that too, but that’s more Harry’s department,” she said.

Everyone looked at Harry, who looked uncomfortable. “Er…I can work out something,” he said. “Like…I dunno, if they _do_ start rounding up muggle-borns, I’d want to do something about, that if we can.”

“Then I’ll be with you, Harry,” Ginny said, and she kissed him.

“So what does that mean for us?” Neville said uneasily where he stood with Luna.

Hermione smirked. “This is why I asked you to stay,” she said. “Neville, Luna, if Ron and Ginny leave, this means _you_ will be in charge of Dumbledore’s Army next year. Harry and I talked it over, and we decided we trust you more than anyone else.”

“Oh…” Neville said. “I…I guess we can do that.”

“Of course we can,” Luna said. She had turned serious and lost her usual dreamy quality. “You’ll be a very good leader.” She stood on her toes and kissed Neville on the cheek. He blushed heavily.

“I’m sure you can do it, Neville,” Hermione repeated. “And we have some things to give you that you might need. You’ve already got the rings and the galleons, but these should help you with the D.A. more. Ron, you have the contract?”

“Uh, yeah. Here.” Ron pulled out the apparently-blank parchment that housed the D.A. contract and gave it to Neville. “Um, you make it show up by saying, ‘Now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of their country.’ And you hide it by saying, ‘Loose lips sink ships.’”

“Right, got it,” Neville said.

A few quick changes from Hermione gave Neville and Luna the authority to recruit new members. She then pulled out another blank piece of parchment and held it out to them. “ _This_ is the Mathemagician’s Map. I don’t think I’ve shown it to you yet, so I’ll show you how to use it. Look.” She tapped her wand to the parchment and said. “ _Dos moi pa sto, kai tan gan kinaso_ —Give me a place to stand, and I will move the Earth.”

“Whoa,” Neville said as he saw the map of Hogwarts draw itself. “This is your map? You’re letting us have this?”

“It’s no big deal. I can always make another one,” she assured them, and she quickly walked them through its basic functions. Since she needed a quick way to wipe it, the code for that was simply “ _Eureka!_ ” since one had presumably found what one needed on the Map when done with it.

“Thank you, Hermione,” Luna said. “This will be very useful.”

“I’m sure it will,” she said. “Harry?”

“Ginny, you have your mirror?” Harry said.

“Yeah. Here it is.”

“Good.” Harry took the mirror and handed it to Luna. “This is a two-way mirror. Sirius gave it to me. If you say my name into it, you’ll be able to talk to me directly. This way, we’ll be able to keep each other up to date on everything, and it’s untraceable.”

“Wow. Thanks, Harry,” Neville said, sounding relieved. As far as he’d come in the group, he would still want a lifeline to fall back on.

“And there’s one more thing,” Hermione said. Slowly, she reached into her robes and pulled out a notebook filled with extensive notes from her Dictaquill. She handed it to Neville. “This is my spellbook,” she said.

Neville looked shocked and jerked his hand back. “You want to give us your _spellbook_?” he said in surprise.

“Yes. I know it’s customary to be protective of the spells you invent, but this is war. We need every advantage we can get. I’m trusting _you two_ to use it well and choose wisely which spells you teach to whom. Not all of them are suitable for everyone in the group. I didn’t put _all_ of my spells in there, but I put in everything I’ve taught Harry, which is more than I’ve taught to anyone else—including some spells to rearrange molecules, which is powerful and dangerous magic. Can you two handle this?”

Faced with this responsibility, Neville rose to the occasion. He stood up straighter and said, “Yes, Hermione, we can. This is a lot of trust you’re putting on us. We won’t let you down.”

“Of course, Hermione,” Luna agreed. “We’re with you. And I bet a lot of the D.A. will be excited to have your spellbook on hand.”

“Very good,” she said. “Thank _you_ for doing this. I think Dumbledore’s Army is in good hands.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Hermione recalls about the Polish Holocaust survivor is a based on a real woman I saw speak twice in middle school. I’m sorry to say I don’t remember her name, nor can I find it anywhere. (This was before the days of online news.) I hope I’m remembering her story correctly, and that I’m not conflating it with someone else’s story. The details are fuzzy after so much time. I do clearly remember her repeating the order in Polish and English, though, so I pretty sure that part is right. I used Google Translate for that, so I apologise for any mistakes.


	56. Chapter 56

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is mightier than the sword.
> 
> Wow, the end of sixth year came up on me fast. I though I’d need five or ten more chapters, but here it is. Just one more year to go, and trust me, it will be epic.

_QUIBBLER EXCLUSIVE!_

_Ministry_ _’s Nefarious Plans Revealed!_

_Muggle-Borns To Be Rounded Up Into Grindelwald-Style Camps!_

 

Like Harry’s interview a year and a half ago, this was a particularly lucid issue of _The Quibbler._ Unfortunately, unlike Harry’s interview, the content was much closer to their usual conspiracy fare, and with only a passing reference to Harry’s name as “Undesirable No. 1”, it didn’t attract nearly as much attention. This was why Hermione’s reaching out to the muggle-borns in the D.A. was so vital. Even after the last war, muggle-borns were five or ten percent of the population, and most of them had connections with each other. With their help, the news spread like wildfire among themselves even before the magazine came out.

Walking down Diagon Alley the day the exclusive was published, Hermione was pleased to see people talking about it as she passed in the street—not many, but enough to be sure the news had got out. She was out to do some last minute shopping herself, since she was worried this might be the last time she could show her face in public for a while. A few people noticed and pointed to her as she passed. Her basilisk-skin coat was pretty distinctive, and she _had_ personally vouched for the accuracy of the exposé in the magazine.

One woman came up to Hermione and practically hugged her on the street. She nearly cursed the woman on instinct before she realised she wasn’t attacking her.

“Miss Granger! Thank you, thank you so much for getting the word out. Dirk Cresswell contacted me, and he said the warning came from you, but I couldn’t believe it until _The Quibbler_ everyone’s reading this morning—”

“Er…excuse me…” Hermione said, holding the woman at arm’s length. “Do I know you.”

“Mary Cattermole, Miss Granger. You saved me and my son from Bellatrix Lestrange last November.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mrs. Cattermole!” she gasped. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognise you.”

“It’s fine. It’s fine. I just can’t believe they would do this.” She waved a copy of the magazine.

“Of course they would, Mrs. Cattermole. The Death Eaters are basically Wizard Nazis already. The only reason we don’t think of them that way  is that they’ve never held real power before.”

Mrs. Cattermole sighed: “It’s just so hard to read this. Both of my grandfathers died to make sure their grandchildren would never have to face something like this.”

Hermione shrugged awkwardly. “Different world, different rules,” she said. “We have to fight our own battles here…Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes, I’ll be fine. I’m going to buy a few more things I’ll need and then see about getting my family out of the country…I’m…I’m not a fighter. What about you?”

“Me? I’m Undesirable No. 2,” Hermione said with a bravado she didn’t really feel. “I have a reputation to uphold.”

* * *

The next day, the Hogwarts Express returned to King’s Cross, but Ron and Ginny weren’t on it. Professor McGonagall had arranged for them to take a Floo to the Leaky Cauldron. Since Ginny was the only one who didn’t have her Apparition License yet, it was easy for them to get back to Prewett Manor from there. Hermione did turn up, however, mainly because she was worried about Luna. She _was_ on the train, and she would be a prime target for the Death Eaters after her father published his exposé, which was why Hermione had made arrangements with him to take her home.

She watched the students getting off the train, most of them watching the platform nervously as they looked for their parents. She saw Neville get off the train and join his grandmother unmolested. She saw a few muggle-borns pass by as well without incident. Finally, she saw Luna poke her head out and look around furtively, not long after Neville got off. Hermione didn’t think she’d seen the younger girl looking so cautious and worried before, and she looked so lonely stepping off the train by herself, dragging her trunk behind her.

Hermione hurried over to her. “Luna!” she called.

Luna turned as saw her, and smiled. “Hermione,” she said cheerfully. “It’s so good to see you. What are you doing here?”

Hermione was a little worried about Luna’s lack of concern about her identity, but she told her, “I’m here to take you home, Luna.”

“Oh, that’s nice of you. You know where I live?”

“Do I know where you live?” Hermione said in confusion. “Of course I do. I’ve visited—” She stopped when she noticed that Luna had her wand drawn at her side and was looking her in the eye with the most intense stare she’d ever seen from her. It seemed the girl wasn’t oblivious as she’d thought. “Ah,” Hermione said. She leaned closer from opposite her wand hand and whispered, “The first time we met, you were visiting the Ginny, and you told me my hair would ward off wrackspurts.”

Luna holstered her wand and smiled wider, hugging Hermione, who squeaked in surprise. “Thank you so much for coming, Hermione,” she said.

“I was worried about you,” she said. “I already arranged it with your father. I’ll Apparate you straight there.” Hermione didn’t strictly need to ask Luna about her own identity. She was wearing the ring that she’d given her, and she’d given it a Flesh Memory, like a Golden Snitch—not as good as the real deal. There was a chance someone could spoof it. But Luna herself didn’t know about that feature, and it would alert Hermione at once if someone else tried to wear the ring.

She was about to call Dobby to get Luna’s trunk when two shady characters stepped out of the shadows, drawing their wands.

“Uh-oh,” she said, drawing both of her wands.

Spells flew at them without preamble. Hermione shielded and stepped in front of Luna.

“Oh dear,” Luna squeaked. _“Stupefy!”_

Bystanders started running around her. Surely, there were a few people on the train platform who would normally come to their defence, but there were other children, too, and in a situation like this, almost everyone had to protect their own family first.

 _Diffindo! Reducto! Bombarda!_ Hermione cast silently. She’d reached the point of casting most of the staples and many of her own creations nonverbally by now. Unfortunately, the Death Eaters weren’t pulling their punches, and it was still enough to keep her on the back foot. _Dobby_ , she thought, but before she could call him, she had to get herself and Luna to someplace he could Apparate in safely. She remembered how that had gone with the dementors in third year.

 _“Dridristaub!”_ one of them shouted, aiming at Hermione rather than Luna. Hermione stared in horror and she barely brought up a shield just in time before her own curse hit it with the force of a twelve-gauge shotgun.

 _“Ossificans!”_ the other Death Eater cast at Luna, who parried Hermione’s Ossifying Curse and fired back with a series of creative charms that made the terrain attack them, the floor tiles folding up and wrapping around their feet.

The Death Eaters smashed the floor tiles and advanced, throwing dark curses that Hermione could barely fend off.

 _Fulmina! Didumosa Tacheia! Exsolvedent!_ Hermione cast. The Tooth-Removing Curse struck one of the Death Eaters, but unfortunately, it was slow, taking a couple of admittedly nightmarish minutes to work. It would incapacitate him at best.

 _“Trigeminal Neuralgia!”_ the other one shouted.

Luna screamed and went down hard with a crippling headache under Hermione’s Brain Freeze Hex. Hermione saw red and fired back verbally with _“Tekeli-li!”_ The second Death Eater watched in horror as a pitch-black spell struck his shield, and instead of dissipating, exploded into a fog that wrapped around the edges, momentarily blinding him and striking him with inky black tendrils. The spell vanished quickly, but the effect set in moments later, and Hermione could tell he had started _seeing things_.

Truthfully, it was more of a psychological attack than anything else. It was a simple hex, but it changed the behaviour of light in the eyes chaotically, leaving him seeing the world through a fisheye lens, filled with funhouse mirror reflections and impossible colours, throwing off his aim and perceptions. Either way, it gave Hermione time to lift the hex on Luna.

Then, the first Death Eater spat out a tooth and cast _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Hermione hit the deck, pulling Luna down with her. She cast an _Incendio_ behind her at the Death Eaters while Luna snapped off a lightning-fast pair of _Diffindos_.

The second Death Eater shouted at his companion, “Hey, watch it! We need Lovegood alive! Gah! Merlin, what did the mudblood _do_ to me?” He tore off his mask, and Hermione got a look at his face. She recognised it from the wanted posters.

It was Rookwood.

That explained how he knew all her spells. Damn her for letting her secrets out, but at least she had new tricks, now, and he was still disoriented. “Ha! Good luck figuring _that_ one out, Rookwood!” she taunted.

Unfortunately, while she said that, he cast back with _“Epidermolysis Bullosa!”_ and caught her in the leg even with his messed-up aim.

“Damn!” she hissed. She knew the countercurse, but her skin would blister quickly if she couldn’t get out of there. _“Peripheral Neuropathy,”_ she muttered, casting the spell at Rookwood. She didn’t quite have that one down nonverbally, but she hoped she could be quiet enough to hide the incantation from him—not that it was a hard spell to figure out. Unfortunately, he blocked it. _“Vanderwalis,”_ she tried again. Rookwood shielded again, but this was an area-effect spell. A quick _Accio_ to unexpectedly pull him forward, and he was stuck in a zone of extreme friction and stickiness.

Luna, meanwhile, was still pinned down, trying to duel the first Death Eater. She was holding her own, but probably the only reason she had made it so long was that he wanted her alive. Hermione had no such luck.

 _“Commotio Cordis!”_ he cast at Hermione.

 _“Zwinger!” Photia Damaskou!_ The Blinding Curse missed its mark, but he dodged anyway.

 _“Viscera Expellite!”_ he shouted.

Hermione’s shield shattered under the dark curse. Then, she just barely caught Rookwood muttering something she couldn’t make out from the floor. It was a long spell, and he seemed to conjure some kind of rapidly-shifting lattice in the air, which he banished towards them at the same time the other Death Eater threw a _Carnifex_ bone-cutter. Luckily, Luna shielded her in time, and Hermione ducked out of the way of the spinning lattice. An abandoned luggage trolley was shredded into flying shrapnel as easily as the inferi under her cutting wires.

 _“Pondus!”_ she shouted, throwing as much power as she could into it, aimed at Rookwood’s feet. Not one of hers, but still useful. The platform was hollow underneath, and the Heavyweight Charm made it collapse under its own weight. Rookwood pitched forward, but recovered with a Banishing Charm to push himself back, tearing his robes and skin on the high-friction floor with a scream. _Dridristraub! Rigor Mortis! Fulmina!_ She kept up the pressure, then fired another string of curses at the other Death Eater while Luna tried to blast a column of fog or steam at Rookwood.

 _“Carnifex! Cado! Damnatio!”_ the first Death Eater fired three lethal spells at Hermione. Hermione held her shield and pointed her wand up over his head and thought hard: _Calcifrango!_ Her Mortar-Shattering Curse was a much more targeted blasting curse, cracking only the calcium-compounds of the mortar between the bricks, allowing her to blast out a larger section of the wall, even nonverbally, than she could have hoped to do otherwise. The Death Eater, overwhelmed by the size of the blast, tried to shield himself, but wasn’t fast or strong enough to stop the literal ton of bricks from dropping on his head. He went down hard and didn’t get up. His mask had gone flying, and Hermione got a clear look at a caved-in skull.

He was dead.

Rookwood himself was momentarily shocked, staring in disbelief at Hermione. Then, he raised his wand at her, the tip glowing green. Suddenly, his eyes widened, and he spun around just in time for a flash of red light to blast him. He was knocked flat on his back, but he popped up again, only for a Blasting Curse to fly at him from nowhere. Luna took advantage of the opening and blasted him with wind to knock him off his feet while Hermione threw another Shotgun Curse. Caught in the crossfire, Rookwood Apparated away.

And Harry pulled off his invisibility cloak.

“Oh, Harry, thank God,” Hermione said in relief.

“I thought you could use some help,” Harry said. “Didn’t think you’d be back this soon, though.”

“Thank you. That was close. But we have to move fast. Rookwood could come back with backup any minute. Dobby!”

 _Pop!_ “Miss Hermione! Is you in trouble?” Dobby said when he saw the scene.

“Not if we get out of here now. Take that trunk to Luna’s house. You know where it is? Harry, you Apparate there. I’ll take Luna.”

Five seconds later, they were gone.

* * *

The four of them Apparated to the Rookery—Luna’s house—and moments later, Xenophilius Lovegood came running out to meet them. Hermione realised that she and Luna were covered in minor cuts and burns from near misses of curses, and she personally had a bad case of blisters rapidly spreading up her legs. They must have looked a sight.

“Luna!” Mr. Lovegood cried. “What happened to you? Are you alright?”

“I’m alright, Dad,” Luna said softly. “Death Eaters tried to abduct me at the train station, but Hermione and Harry saved me.”

“Hermione?” Mr. Lovegood said.

“Just a moment, Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione said. She sat down and stuck her leg out, chanting the countercurse over it. She had to do this before she collapsed from shock. The blisters, unfortunately, would need a proper healing paste to remove, but at least they wouldn’t get any worse. She stood and limped over to him. “I’m sorry for the trouble we’ve caused,” she said. “We knew the Death Eaters might come after you for publishing that exposé, but—”

“We had to do the right thing,” Mr. Lovegood said. “Thank you for bringing my Moonbeam back to me.”

Hermione looked to Harry. “Thank _you_ for saving us, Harry,” she said. “I don’t know if I could’ve held off Rookwood much longer.”

“Rookwood?” Mr. Lovegood said. “The Unspeakable?”

“Yes, him and one other. He’s…he’s You-Know-Who’s best spellcrafter, so he was the best to counter me. I…I killed the other one…I don’t know who it was.”

“Goodness!”

“Did you?” Harry said. “I didn’t get a good look, but…”

Hermione nodded shakily: “He was dead.”

“Hermione collapsed a wall on him,” Luna said far too serenely. “It was rather frightening.”

“Luna did pretty well herself.”

They all stared at each other awkwardly. Even after having been in a few fights, Hermione wasn’t sure what to say in a situation like this. There had always been an authority figure around to take charge before. Now, there was no one, really.

A sound like an enormous gong rang through the air. Harry and Hermione jumped, and Luna and Mr. Lovegood immediately turned alert and drew their wands.

“What’s happening?” Harry said.

“Someone’s attacking the wards!” Mr. Lovegood said. “Inside. Quickly, quickly.”

They ran into the house even as Hermione shifted into battle mode again and drew her wands. She couldn’t even _see_ the enemy, but she could see shimmering flashing in the air where powerful blasting curses struck the wards.

“How long can the wards hold out?” Harry asked.

“Under a direct assault, a good, long while,” Mr. Lovegood said, looking out the window warily. “If they try to tap the ley line, or if they use something stronger than curses, it could get complicated.”

“What’s stronger than curses?” Harry said, but his question was answered when a deafening boom rattled the windows, making them all duck.

“I’m guessing that,” Hermione said fearfully. “Do you have an escape route? They’ve probably already put up Anti-Apparition Wards.”

“There’s the Floo. But there’s so few places we can go. And the house—my printing press—”

 _“Lovegood!”_ They looked out the window and saw Rookwood standing unmasked with four other Death Eaters. He must have dispelled Hermione’s hex, or it wasn’t affecting him too badly. He was waving his wand in large circles in the air. “We tried to do this the easy way. Send out Potter and the mudblood, and we’ll leave you and your daughter alone.”

“He’s lying,” Hermione hissed.

“Definitely lying,” Mr. Lovegood agreed. “They’re here for me as much as you.”

Rookwood was still chanting. He did _something_ to link whatever he was conjuring to the other four Death Eaters and hurled it at the wards. It lit up when it struck, and Hermione gasped. She knew that shape. It was the disdyakis triacontahedron, set into motion. A whirling sphere of Cutting Curses fuelled by five Death Eaters, chewing through the wards in what was doubtless a minor ritual.

“Damn, he knows non-Euclidean geometry!” she said.

“How long can the wards stand up to _that_?” Harry said.

“Not long enough,” squeaked Mr. Lovegood.

“Dobby, can you get us out of here?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, miss!” he said.

“Mr. Lovegood—” she started to say, holding out her hand to him.

He didn’t take it. “Luna, open the Floo to the Hog’s Head,” he yelled. “We’ll be safe there long enough to regroup.”

“I thought you said Aberforth didn’t like you,” Luna called back even as she ran to the fireplace.

“He doesn’t, but he’d never refuse a family in need.” He dashed up the stairs.

“Mr. Lovegood, where are you going?” Hermione cried.

“I need to shrink the printing press!”

“Mr. Lovegood—! Harry watch the wards!” She ran up after him with Dobby following. “Mr. Lovegood, there’s no time!”

“Hermione, the wards are already cracking!” Harry yelled after her. “They won’t last much longer!”

“Can’t get the truth out without a printing press,” Mr. Lovegood said to himself.

“How long does it take to shrink such a complicated piece of machinery?” Hermione said. “It’s delicate, and the charm’s not really designed for that.”

“I can make it work, Miss Gr— _AHH!_ ”

There was a crash like a hall full of glass shattering as the wards collapsed, and moments later, part of the wall blew inward, knocking them to the ground. Hermione brushed the rubble out of the way and looked up. The printing press was destroyed, and Rookwood was on a broom outside the breach. He was holding up a large horn.

“Oh, no, that’s an erumpent horn!” Hermione gasped.

“Lovegood, this is your one warning,” Rookwood called. “Cross the Dark Lord again, and we won’t be so lenient.”

Hermione grabbed Mr. Lovegood’s hand. No arguing this time. “Dobby, get us out of here!”

Rookwood threw the horn, and all Hermione knew was fire and noise and crushing darkness, and then…

 _Pop!_ They reappeared on Muriel’s drawing room floor.

Molly Weasley jumped in fright and leapt to her feet. “Hermione…! Xenophilius? What on Earth are you doing here?”

Hermione brushed some metal type blocks off her robes and looked up at Molly. “Rookwood destroyed the Rookery,” she said, and then, she giggled hysterically.

“Luna? Where’s Luna?” Mr. Lovegood. He crawled over to Hermione, grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “Where’s my Luna?” he demanded.

“Luna…? Wha—? If we’re lucky, at the Hog’s Head with Harry,” she stammered. “Um… _Expecto Nuntium._ ” Her wand produced only a wisp of mist. “Come on, _Expecto Nuntium. Expecto Nuntium!_ _”_ Her otter Patronus appeared, but it wavered, wobbling about as if drunk. “T-tell Harry Mr. Lovegood at I are safe with the Weasleys,” she said, and it zoomed off.

Molly helped her up to the sofa while Percy came into the room and helped Mr. Lovegood. A minute later, she felt a burning on her hand. She looked down and saw a message from Harry on her ring. He could have sent a Patronus, of course, but they had agreed the rings were more discreet for sending messages back to her:

 

_SAFE WITH LUNA AT HOGSHEAD COMING TO YOU_

 

“They’re alright,” she said wearily. “They’re coming here.” She sank down onto the sofa as the weight of the situation finally hit her.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Molly said. “Everyone’s alright?”

She nodded silently.

“What happened?”

“I killed one of them,” she said flatly. “At King’s Cross. He nearly killed me, but…”

“Oh, dear…” Molly said. “You should never have been mixed up in this, Hermione,” she said.

“Yes…well…It’s been too late for that for two years now,” she replied. “It was bound to happen sooner or later…”

Molly sighed and stroked her hair like Hermione’s own mother used to do when she was much younger. Hermione leaned a bit closer, but didn’t otherwise react, mostly staring into space. “Oh, Hermione…” she said. “You know, I’ve been fortunate enough never to have had to kill anyone, but my brothers did—during the last war…I haven’t been ignorant of what you’ve been doing these past two years. You can let it out. It’s going to be hard, but you did what needed to be done.”

“Yes, I know,” Hermione said. “It’s not the first time I thought I had…” She trembled a little. “I thought I’d killed Bellatrix at the Ministry…This one…I dropped a wall on him, and I don’t even know his name.”

“That happens, too, Hermione. And it doesn’t get easier—or it shouldn’t, if you manage to stay human, but the important things is, you survived.”

Hermione kept staring into space with a hard expression on her face.

Molly sighed: “If you like, I can get a message through to George. I daresay you could use your boyfriend by your side more than his mother just now.”

Hermione looked up at her and cracked a weak smile. “Thank you, Molly,” she said softly.

A few minutes later, Harry came through the Floo with Luna. Luna did manage to save her trunk, so she wouldn’t go unclothed, which was good because Hermione didn’t think the Weasleys would have anything her size, she was so short. Mr. Lovegood, on the other hand, was tall and thin, so Bill’s clothes would probably fit if, as Hermione feared, his house had been totally demolished.

Arthur brought Ron and Ginny home, and about the same time, George and Fred came through. Hermione finally broke and clung to George in his comforting embrace as she fumblingly tried to explain what had happened with help from Harry and Luna. Luna impressed them with anecdotes of Hermione’s duelling prowess, which embarrassed her more than anything else. Percy looked grief-stricken upon hearing what had happened to the Lovegoods’ house, but despite his loss, Mr. Lovegood insisted he wasn’t sorry for doing the right thing. Arthur and Fred went out on a quick scouting mission to survey the ruins and managed to salvage a fair bit from the Rookery, including most of Mr. Lovegood’s clothes and, to Luna’s delight, several boxes of her mother’s possessions, but the printing press was a total loss.

“We’ll figure something out, Mr. Lovegood,” said Hermione, having collected herself. An idea was starting to come to her. “It’s not hard to find a printing press or the equivalent in England. _That_ _’s_ replaceable.”

* * *

_MINISTRY DECRIES_ _“SENSATIONALISED LEAKS”_

 

That was the headline in the _Daily Prophet_ the Monday after _The Quibbler_ exposé broke.

 

 _Minister for Magic Pius Thicknesse, speaking with a spokeswizard from the Department of Mysteries, condemned the recent publication of classified documents by_ The Quibbler _and the_ _“libellous conspiracy theories” of impending persecution and imprisonment of muggle-born witches and wizards. Minister Thicknesse insisted that no “Registration Commission” nor “Relocation Camp” was currently in the works, and any claims that they are were “blatant lies intended to stir up discontent against the Ministry of Magic”._

_The anonymous Unspeakable at the press conference had this to say:_ _“We at the Department of Mysteries are deeply disappointed in the unauthorised publication of these research documents before they were ready for dissemination to the public, as well as their misappropriation to foment civil unrest. One of the reasons we are so careful to keep our research confidential is to avoid just this kind of political exploitation.”_

_He continued:_ _“The actual papers published in_ The Quibbler _were genuine, but their interpretation deeply misrepresents them. This research into the origin of magic was initiated long before the current administration and has chiefly involved genealogical studies that indicated that many quote-unquote muggle-born witches and wizards in fact descend from a hidden magical ancestry._ _”_

_When asked about the allegations that the Ministry is planning an overhaul of Hogwarts School, the Minister had this to say:_ _“The Ministry is dedicated to providing a quality education to all young witches and wizards in Britain, and to that end, we are working with the Hogwarts faculty and Board of Governors to improve the teaching standards and avoid the mistakes of two years ago.”_

_The Minister refused to comment on the speculation that Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to former Minister Fudge, who is currently serving a life sentence in Azkaban for the use of an Unforgivable Curse on a minor, would be pardoned and released. However, an unnamed source in the Ministry claimed that the case against Umbridge is being investigated to see if she was set up to take the fall when Fudge was forced from office._

 

“Those bastards!” Hermione spat. “I should’ve known they’d come up with new propaganda to discredit us. And damned if it isn’t _good_ , too. They might’ve bloody _planned_ for this.”

“They _can_ _’t_ release Umbridge,” Ginny protested. “There were two dozen witnesses!”

“Of course they can,” Hermione said. “Tell a big enough lie, and people will start to believe it. And the same goes for the rest of it. I’ll bet that bit about magical ancestry is actually true. It’s just that most muggle-borns won’t be able to trace their families back that far, what with documentation transferring so poorly to the muggle world.”

“Not to mention squibs being abandoned at orphanages on top of that,” Percy added. “I can see where they’re going. Say _real_ wizards got their magic from magical ancestry, and then go after the ones who can’t prove it.”

“We scored something of a win, though, didn’t we?” Arthur said. “It’s not like they can actually do the Registration Commission now.”

“Not by name, Dad,” Percy said, “but they can always find a way.”

“They might even move sooner,” Hermione agreed. “They’ll bring back the Registration Commission under a different name, they’ll find a few token muggle-borns to attach to attach to a magical ancestry, and they’ll keep building the relocation camp in secret for the rest, and nothing will actually _change_.”

“We still made a difference, Hermione,” Luna spoke up. “People will know to be wary. Muggle-borns will hide and won’t be as easy to catch.”

Mr. Lovegood shuffled into the room, mumbling to himself. He wasn’t the same since the loss of his home, even with Luna’s help. He swiped the paper from Hermione’s hands and skimmed it over. He growled low when he read the headline. “Propaganda press,” he muttered. “Libellous conspiracy theories. I shouldn’t let this go unanswered. If only I had my press still…”

“I know, Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione said. “I’ve been thinking about it…”

“Hermione,” Molly interrupted, “I know you say it would be helpful, but we can’t put a _printing press_ in this house. Muriel’s already unhappy about so many people using the place as a safe-house.”

Privately, Hermione thought that Muriel could be a little more charitable with a war on, but that wasn’t her primary concern at the moment. “I can’t say she’s wrong,” she said, “if not for the same reasons. We need a better base of operations.”

“Fideliused, right?” Harry said. “Can you cast the charm?”

“Not yet,” Hermione admitted. “Bill can, though. I should really learn it. Any ideas on where to have it?” She addressed the question to the whole house.

“Someplace with more resources,” Harry said firmly. “You’ve shown us a lot of hospitality, Ms. Prewett, but it’s hard to get in and out of here, especially with enough food for everyone. Not downtown like Grimmauld Place was, either, but…an old industrial park, maybe? An abandoned warehouse or factory that won’t be missed.”

“We might even find an abandoned newsprinters’ office,” Mr. Lovegood piped up. “We could restart _The Quibbler_.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea, Xeno,” Molly warned him. “You’ve already nearly been killed once. And what about Luna?”

“What about her?” he asked. “It’s not like she’ll be able to go back to Hogwarts after this.”

“I really should, though, Dad,” Luna said softly. “They’ll be counting on me there. The D.A. _Neville_.”

“It’s too dangerous, Moonbeam. You saw what they did to our house. They’ll come after you to get to me again.”

“Actually, Mr. Lovegood…” Hermione said, “They wouldn’t do that if you were dead.”

Everyone stopped and stared at her. “What?” Mr. Lovegood said.

“Molly’s right. Restarting _The Quibbler_ is more trouble than it’s worth. They’ll be looking for you. And besides, this really isn’t the time for runic puzzles and cryptomagizoology, no offence. Let Xenophilius Lovegood die with it. But as for us, I had another idea. That was good thinking, Harry. An industrial area would give us the resources we need. We could start a new publication—different writing style, different format, and no byline. Nothing to tie it to _The Quibbler_. Something to spread the news of the war that the Death Eaters cover up.”

“You think we can find a press?” Harry said in surprise.

“We won’t need one.”

A printing press, while theoretically possible, was too big and conspicuous for their idea. It required too many resources—specialised ones. She’d briefly entertained the notion of a laser printer in place of a printing press, given the small circulation of _The Quibbler_ , but she realised they’d need both electricity and computer skills to use it and dropped the idea.

A _mimeograph_ , on the other hand, could be used without electricity. A quick trip to the library told her that. It would be easy to maintain and quality control with magic, and the machines were much smaller than a printing press—small enough to be mobile—and they were still in use by small press publishers. _La R_ _ésistance_ had used them in World War II, so it was thematically appropriate as well. The downside was that Mr. Lovegood would be limited to black-and-white lineart—no photos—but it was better than nothing, and the different format would throw the Death Eaters off the scent.”

“Well, then,” Mr. Lovegood drew himself up. “As long as we’re going to get the truth to the people, I’m in, Hermione.”

“Then I guess I am, too,” said Harry.

“Us too!” George and Fred agreed.

“ _You_ still have your shop,” Hermione said.

“We’re still in, though,” George insisted.

“You mean you’re all going to be leaving again?” Molly said worriedly.

“It’s safer if we’re more split up anyway, Molly,” Harry told her. “I agree with Hermione. We need a better place to work from. Dumbledore gave us a mission to defeat You-Know-Who, and we need a proper base of operations to do it—one that won’t risk so many people who aren’t involved. We’ll still be in contact, though; don’t worry. I’m sure Hermione will take care of that.”

“Thank you, Harry,” Hermione said with a weak smile.

Arthur put his arm around his wife and made the executive decision: “Well, if you’re sure, we wish you luck. Be careful out there.”

“Of course, Arthur,” Hermione said. “Mr. Lovegood, fancy an expedition to the muggle world?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exsolvedent: stylised from the Latin for “loosen teeth”.
> 
> Tekeli-li: cry of the Shoggoths in the Cthulhu Mythos.
> 
> Peripheral Neuropathy: name of the medical condition based on the Greek for “disease of the nerves of the outer surface”.
> 
> Vanderwalis: named for Johannes van der Waals, who discovered intermolecular forces.
> 
> Cado: Neck-Breaking Curse. Credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.
> 
> Damnatio: Crushing Curse. Credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.
> 
> Pondus: Latin for “weight”.
> 
> Calcifrango: stylised from the Latin for “shatter chalk”.


	57. Seventh Year, Summer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Liberation! JK Rowling always wins!
> 
> Fun fact: this chapter was supposed to have another 1500 words, but when I was editing I got to what is now the end, and the story suddenly said, “Stop here!” in my mind. Just goes to show how plots can run away from you sometimes. Those scenes have been moved to the next chapter.

George and Fred joined Hermione, Harry, and the Lovegoods at the building for the “housewarming party”. They’d been lucky enough to find an abandoned shirtwaist factory in a decaying industrial park on the outskirts of Nottingham. It was small, and the magical presence in the city was higher than Hermione would have liked, but it had all they needed—offices, meeting rooms, a factory floor, a kitchen, and even some makeshift sleeping quarters they could use. The rest of the magicals were confused when Hermione wanted to make extra sure the fire doors worked properly, but it turned out fine. The building had been built after 1911.

Hermione had claimed a corner of the upper floor to turn into a loft with a desk and a cot and covered the walls with blackboards so she could continue her arithmancy work there. The kitchenette was expanded into the breakroom and turned into a full kitchen with magic. And a part of the factory floor was cleaned up and converted for Mr. Lovegood’s new publication.

The exterior of the building was hidden thoroughly: a Fidelius Charm, with Hermione as the Secret Keeper, plus more conventional wards. To muggles, it would look like an overgrown vacant lot of no interest to anyone.

“Nice place you have here,” Fred said. “Looks cosy.” It really didn’t.

“It’s good enough for what we need,” Hermione said. It had been dirty, rusty, and filled with vermin when they found it, but magic did a quick job at clearing out such non-magical grime if you didn’t need to be delicate about it. Now, it was quite livable.

“It looks like you’re pretty well set,” said George. “You’ve got what you need to get by, you can do your work, Mr. Lovegood can start his new newsletter—wait, can he?”

“Yes, he can,” Hermione said with a smile. “Mr. Lovegood, I was just about to show you.” She led the group out to the factory floor, where they had set up all the equipment he would need to make a cheap magazine. Mr. Lovegood already knew about a lot of it. There was a large stock of paper, various kinds of ink, and art supplies. He’d also seen the typewriters, though he was bemused by them, and the stock of ribbons, special paper, backup parts, and so on. But he hadn’t seen how they would actually be printing.

“There’s no press,” Fred pointed out obviously. Indeed the only piece of equipment that was hidden was a small worktable with a sheet draped over some machine.

“No,” she admitted. “It was too much trouble: too big and complicated, too expensive, too hard to get hold of one, especially discreetly, and making one wouldn’t fare much better.”

Mr. Lovegood frowned. “Then how am I going to print my newsletter?” he asked.

“With a poor man’s press the muggles invented a while back.” Hermione smiled and pulled away the sheet: “Mr. Lovegood, _this_ is a mimeograph.”

Mr. Lovegood’s eyes widened, and he approached the machine, examining its mechanism. He wasn’t familiar with it, but it looked like he could figure a lot of it out. “Amazing,” he said, “it’s so small. I can see roughly what it does, but…How does it work, Hermione?”

“It prints pages using an ink roller and a wax paper stencil. It’s not as good as a proper press, I’ll admit. It doesn’t do photos…or colours at all, really, but you can print a magazine on it.”

“That’s too bad,” Luna piped up. “The illustrations in _The Quibbler_ were always so nice. I enjoyed drawing many of them myself.”

“You can still draw them, Luna, only in plain black ink, now,” Hermione assured her.

“We’ll make do, Moonbeam,” Mr. Lovegood said. “Okay, this makes sense,” he said, continuing to look over the machine. George and Fred were taking an interest as well. “But how do you make the stencils?”

“With a typewriter, Mr. Lovegood,” she pointed at the other pair of muggle devices.

“Ah, I suspected as much from the letter keys. And how do those work?”

“Well, ordinarily, you’d spend months learning to press the keys in the right order fast enough to write articles, but luckily, we have magic. George? Fred?” The Twins looked up at her. “I thought if you put your heads together, you could enchant those to take dictation in a day or two.”

“Aha, a challenge!” George said.

“I knew there was a reason you kept us around,” Fred grinned.

“Oh, and the fact that I’m dating her had nothing to do with it?” George countered. Hermione rolled her eyes. They’d get it done.

Fred started experimentally pressing the keys on one typewriter and watching how it worked. “Muggles come up with the cleverest things,” he said. “Don’t know that it’d be much better than writing unless you’re writing a book.”

“It’s _much_ faster than writing with quills if you’re good at it,” Hermione said. “I haven’t had a lot of time to practice, but I could probably type faster than I write.”

“Well, we’ll get it working smooth as quicksilver; don’t you worry,” George told her. “If the Death Eaters think they can stop the free press, they’ve got another think coming.”

“Hear, hear!” Mr. Lovegood said loudly.

They relaxed for a while after that, just enjoying the company, but that evening, the Twins told her another idea they’d been working on. “You know, Hermione, we’ve been thinking, too,” George said.

“About our old friend, Lee,” Fred added.

“You see, Lee was talking about going into the radio business before he died. He knew more about the Wizarding Wireless than anybody.”

“Okay? So?” Hermione said.

“So, we’ve got all his notes,” Fred told her, “and we reckon we could start our own station—take over the airwaves.”

“A wireless station?” she said.

“Yeah. Maybe with a password so only our allies can hear it—or else one that drowns out the regular wireless so we can say what _we_ want to say.”

“So a pirate radio, then,” she replied.

“Pirates? That could be pretty cool,” George said with a grin.

That wasn’t exactly what she meant, but she didn’t bother correcting him. She thought back to how muggles did propaganda during the World Wars. “That…that could actually be really useful,” she said. “Especially to reach the most people quickly…But you’re going to have to do it without me,” she said. “I’ve too many projects as it is. I can speak on air, but that’s it.”

“Don’t worry, Hermione,” George said. “We’re got it covered.”

“Though we wouldn’t object to you doing a guest appearance on our show,” Fred added.

* * *

The first issue of Mr. Lovegood’s new magazine, though they were black-and-white mimeograph prints, was, Hermione thought, some of Mr. Lovegood’s finest work: a simple, large headline:

 

_LIBERATION_

_TRUTH ALWAYS WINS!_

_With the demise of The Quibbler_ _’s editor and publisher, Xenophilius Lovegood, the Death Eaters no doubt believed that the last voice of truth in Britain had been silenced. NOT SO! We at LIBERATION believe that truth will always triumph, and we will bring it to the people of wizarding Britain…_

 

The bold headline was underscored by a very nice line art drawing from Luna of a mongoose killing the snake from a Dark Mark. Below that was a scathing editorial denouncing the Death Eaters for their various crimes, especially “killing” Mr. Lovegood. The writing style was different from _The Quibbler_ so as to mask his involvement. He was initially disappointed by that, but he soon took it as a challenge.

Hermione had chosen the name, having seen a French Resistance newspaper with the same name in a textbook once, and they made it clear that they would continue writing the truth from an undisclosed location, and they wouldn’t let You-Know-Who intimidate them.

 _Liberation_ was more of a pamphlet than a magazine, and it wouldn’t be making any money, but it was all they needed to get the message out. (Hermione was providing for everyone in the factory out of her funds.) Stacks of them were dropped at the Leaky Cauldron, the Three Broomsticks, the Hog’s Head, and a bunch of them were scattered across the Ministry Atrium by a mysterious wind. Most of them were quickly tracked down and destroyed by Aurors as “libel and sedition”, but they _were_ circulating. The lines of information were still open, and Hermione considered that a win.

Even better, the Creevey Brothers had come through. They had arrived at a drop-off point and delivered a dossier of photographs of the destroyed Rookery. Copying them was a bit more difficult as the mimeograph couldn’t handle them, but in this case, the Aurors ripping them down worked to their advantage. They could make copies in poster form with a Duplication Charm, and it didn’t matter that they would vanish after a couple of days when they were posted in public places.

Meanwhile, Hermione’s other projects were indeed what she spent most of her time on. She poured her efforts into the war as she never had when she was still taking classes. Unfortunately, the tasks before her were harder than ever.

She had the wand motion and incantation for the Killing Curse plus a pretty good idea of what it did down at the most fundamental level. However, finding an arithmantic breakdown for the spell was not an easy task. The Killing Curse was a spell that went through all magical shields, which could have very different structures and suggested very different arithmantic formulae, and no unified pattern had ever been found. Hermione suspected it was something a little more outside-the-box, like how her Heart-Stopping Curse used time and space elements to go through single-layer shields. Quantum tunnelling. But of course, if the Medieval Wizards had stumbled upon a spell that used quantum tunnelling, it would have been entirely by accident.

Another possibility was that the curse simply ignored other magic—phased through it somehow and only affected physical material. That didn’t seem fully convincing. By that line of thinking, she would have expected it to go clean through walls and only stop when it hit a valid target—a living organism with a nervous system, but it was possible. And analysing the Killing Curse was only the first step. Once she figured it out, she had to try find a way to block it, then use that knowledge to look for a way to exorcise a normal horcrux, then finally to cut it from something living.

And worst of all, she was starting to worry she was barking up the wrong tree. After all, a horcrux was soul magic, and the Killing Curse struck at the nervous system. Her planned Soul-Detection Charm might prove more promising. That had its roots in both the _Hominem Revelio_ spell and the ritual magic she studied with Dumbledore and later Bill. But that was a whole other line of research that would take time to work through, and now she was just second-guessing herself.

Add to that continuing to train up her Apparition skills and possibly do an arithmantic analysis of it, learning to cast the Fidelius Charm, and generally expanding her personal spellbook, it was a lot of work.

Sleepless nights were spent trying to hack through her tangle of problems. The blackboards in her loft became covered with figures that she scribbled over violently when she grew frustrated. Books and notes became strewn haphazardly over the floor as more and more of them became irrelevant to the task at hand, covered with little bits and pieces of solutions and half-finished ideas for spells that really wouldn’t be useful to the war at all, or if they were, they were curses inspired by her parents’ medical books that were too dark for even her to use.

There was an extraordinarily rare medical condition call Ondine’s Curse caused by brain stem injuries that suppressed the autonomic breathing reflex. Without it, the body couldn’t breathe on its own without conscious direction. The idea was intriguing to her on an aesthetic level. Made into a curse and done properly, the victim might not notice anything at first, but they would suffocate as soon as they fell asleep.

Hermione actually got most of the way to a solution before she dropped her notes in horror at what she was creating. This was a weapon of terror—a curse only an assassin would use. It was useless in a fight. But then, she second-guessed herself again: if _she_ could come up with it, she thought, Rookwood might be able to, too. Ondine was a well-known folktale, after all, and it was the kind of thing he would do. It might behove her to get in front of it and find a countercurse.

Besides that, the idea of curses that affected the brain stem gave her some ideas for new stunning spells—spells that actually _could_ be useful to her, and then she was off to the races on that. The whole episode distracted her for the better part of three days and wiped her out emotionally, and that was only one of the problems she had getting anything useful done.

As the days wore on, she could tell she was wearing herself out, but she felt so guilty about the time she was losing, not to mention the urgency of the project, that she continued to push herself, even though it really only compounded the problem. She would fall asleep on her cot at increasingly odd hours, the lights still on, with some of her notes or one of her magical tomes lying by her side. She would catch herself staring at the newspaper for half an hour without really reading anything important or lose herself in a barely-relevant magical theory book or sometimes even a science fiction novel and wonder afterwards where the time went.

She _was_ making progress, it was true, but it wasn’t fast enough, and worst of all, she _knew_ that she could get more done— _had_ got more done in the past—if only she could stay focused on the task at hand. She was even starting to regret the time she’d taken out for her Night Vision Charm, even though that _did_ have practical applications if you were careful about how you used it.

Despite the growing evidence that it was the wrong direction, she continued to focus on the Killing Curse for the main thrust of her research, still consulting Bill and occasionally others when she thought they could help. Even though she had her doubts it would solve the final problem, she thought she was close to a breakthrough, and it would still be worth it if she could find a way to block it.

That was why she was lying passed out on her cot late one evening with half a dozen pages of equations on the Killing Curse lying on her chest when she was roused from her dazed state by a burning sensation on her finger. She looked down at her hand, and her blood ran cold.

 

_HELP AT SHOP—GFW_

 

 _“Everyone, get up!”_ she shouted. She heard a thud from somewhere down below. “Wake up! The Twins are under attack!”

Harry had a quick reaction time and was on his feet and ready to go by the time Hermione made it downstairs, despite being in his pyjamas. Luna and Mr. Lovegood were stumbling around, bleary-eyed, having already gone to bed earlier.

“What’s going on?” Harry demanded.

“I got a message from George. The shop is under attack.” Hermione was sure George wouldn’t send a message like that—vague and as short as possible asking for help—unless it were an emergency. She was already tapping a message of her own on her ring:

_ATTACK AT WWW—HJG_

It was getting riskier to use the rings for such a message because it could trigger a major movement of their forces and draw unwanted attention. It would go out to the rest of the Weasleys, but also to Sirius, Remus, Cedric, Neville, and Septima, some of whom weren’t even Order members. But she had to risk it.

“I’m going now,” she said, fumbling with her coat and pulling her unwieldy buckler out of her handbag. “Are you coming, Harry?”

“Of course,” he said.

“Luna? Mr. Lovegood?”

“I’m not a fighter, Miss Granger, and I’m not comfortable sending Luna into that,” Mr. Lovegood said, far more seriously than usual.

Hermione didn’t argue. The Lovegoods weren’t as close with George and Fred, and she could definitely see his point. “It’s your call, Mr. Lovegood,” she said. “Come on, Harry, from the front step, like usual.”

She concentrated, trying to banish the sleep-addled state from her mind. Harry followed her, and moments later, the two of them Apparated to Diagon Alley.

* * *

Hermione appeared on the street alone and surrounded by fire.

Without thinking, she had Apparated into the Alley directly in front of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, facing the entrance, intent on rushing inside to help George and Fred, and predictably, everything went to hell.

There were flames in front of her, flames on either side of her, curses flying around her, and she heard screams. A hard blow hit the small of her back, nearly knocking her to the ground—a spell that probably would have done a lot of damage if not for her basilisk-skin coat. She spun and raised a Shield Charm but a stray hex clipped the edge of it and glanced off her face, knocking her all the way down with a horrible stinging pain on her head. She put her hand up to her hairline, and it came away red.

“Hermione!” she heard one of the Twins’ voices. The fire billowed and a gap opened for just long enough for the two of them to jump through.

“Are you—?”

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_“HERMIONE!”_

Hermione saw the green light headed towards her and raised her buckler in the path of the spell and squeezed her eyes shut. It exploded on impact driving fragments of the carbon nanotube plate into her arm.

_“AAARGH!”_

_“FRED!”_

She felt strong arms lifting her up by her robes and dragging her away from the fray while she heard shouted spells on either side of her. She joined in despite her bleeding arm. Fortunately, both of her wands were intact. Another gap opened in the flames, but it looked too small to pass through. She resisted when George tried to push her on, but they were suddenly thrown forward by the force of multiple spells hitting him in the back, flying straight into the fire and through the shattered door. She screamed, but the flames only licked her harmlessly and she flew through and collapsed sprawled on the shop floor. _Flame-Freezing Charm_ , she thought.

The sickening crunch when George and Fred landed was much more alarming.

They sprawled on the floor of the shop, the fire held back by the wards, though they wouldn’t hold for long. She looked up to behold a horror show.

The shop was half destroyed, the merchandise blasted across the floor, some of it burning from the internal destruction. The anti-fire wards were still working, but the anti-curse wards definitely weren’t. She looked for the Twins and was horrified to see George leaning against the wall, clutching his chest, and clearly favouring one leg. Fred was struggling to his feet, his face burned, cut, and bloody from her shield exploding in his face.

_“What the hell were you doing?!”_

She looked back and saw George glaring at her. She wasn’t sure she’d ever seen him so angry before. Explosions of spellfire were sounding around them. “I was trying to get to you!” she said.

“So you dropped straight into no man’s land?” he shouted.

“I’m sorry! Harry—?” She looked around. Harry was nowhere to be seen. She heard shouts and screens from outside. If she was lucky, Harry had done the smart thing and appeared _behind_ the Death Eaters.

George looked at her face and paled, despite his anger. “Hermione…” He stopped and pointed at the top of her head. She still felt the stinging pain on her forehead, and blood was dripping into her eyes. The others would need tending to fast as well. _“Reflectere,”_ she cast, conjuring a mirror so she could see the damage, and she gasped. A flap of her skin and hair was flapping loose from her skull, and half her face was streaked red with blood.

“Instant Scalping Hex. Has to be,” George said. “Dammit, I don’t know how to heal it!”

Hermione knew that would have to be fixed, and fast. At a loss, she bit down hard on her left sleeve and mumbled _“Facio Sutura”_ through it. The pain nearly blinded her as she ran her wand along the cut down her hairline and conjured stitches to hold the skin back together. She turned to Fred. He’d need stitches too if they couldn’t get out fast. She started to look over his wounds.

_BOOM!_

An explosion ripped through the front of the shop, knocking all three of them onto the ground again. Hermione jumped up, casting curses through the new opening in the wall.

“Freddie, how’re you doin’?” George said.

“Not good,” Fred groaned. “C’n barely see straight.” He got back up and started casting again, but he was blinking from the smoke in his eyes and basically casting blind. Granted, they were fighting nearly blind anyway. The fire ringed the shop, obscuring the view of the Death Eaters. It looked like Bellatrix’s speciality, casting fire that wouldn’t be frozen or dissipated for more than a few seconds. Through the flickering flames, Hermione could see at least half a dozen Death Eaters casting curses—including Killing Curses—into the shop. They could see them coming well enough, but it was still incredibly dangerous having to dodge them. One of the Death Eaters dropped, but she couldn’t see who or what was on the other side.

The shop itself was burning fast. They wouldn’t be able to stay for long. “Dobby!” she called.

Nothing happened.

 _“Dobby!”_ Still nothing. “I thought the Death Eaters didn’t think about elves,” she hissed. “Damn, Rookwood. He saw last time. Can we get out the back?”

“We’ll have to try,” said Fred.

“They’ll come in after us!” George protested.

Hermione looked out at the battle. Ash. There was so much ash in the air—so much _carbon_.

“I can stop them,” she said. A wave of her wand, and her razor thread assembled itself at the molecular level and formed a tripwire across the door at ankle height, and another at knee height just in case, then more across the windows. They wouldn’t last long in that heat, but it would buy time. “Okay, move!”

The three of them backed away, darting from display to display for cover as the shop was beginning to collapse around them. She had just enough time to tap half a message of warning on her ring: _TRIPWI—_ And then, there was a thud and a scream. Someone had walked right into the tripwires.

_SMASH!_

The windows blew inward, shards of glass flying everywhere. The Death Eaters hadn’t taken kindly to that move. Two of them jumped in through the newly-cleared window, but before they could cast a spell, Hermione felt a blast of heat behind her, and she heard a thump and a whistling sound.

“George…What was that?” she asked.

“Fireworks,” he squeaked, and they all stared at each other, including the two Death Eaters.

 _“RUN!”_ all five of them yelled at the same time.

Hermione, George, and Fred all turned and ran, but there was nowhere to run. Running forward would mean running straight into the Death Eaters, and backwards would mean running through the exploding backroom. Hermione took a third option: “This way! _Calcifrango! Depulso!_ ”

They ran straight through the wall.

“Get down!” George tackled her down onto the pile of bricks as a barrage of spells flew over her head, another crunch sounding as he landed on top of her. One of the curses caught him in the shoulder, but he kept moving.

“We have to get out of here!” Hermione said. She pushed herself halfway up and started to turn…and fell on her face, smashing her nose painfully against a brick. “Dammit!”

“Anti-Apparition Wards!” said George unhelpfully.

Hooded figures stepped forward, dispersing the fire, even as she could still see spellfire being exchanged with another group of Death Eaters behind them. Hermione scrambled down to the pavement and banished the pile of bricks into the Death Eaters’ faces, but they casually batted them aside. The three huddled behind George’s shield, and Fred swiped his wand, shattering the glass in the neighbouring building’s window and slamming it into the Death Eaters’ sides. That helped a little bit more.

Hermione really didn’t know how to fight superior numbers of opponents. One was just fine, even two or three, but there weren’t many offensive spells with a large area of effect to stop a large force. Pettigrew’s Fragmentation Grenade Curse could potentially be very effective, but it had far too much risk of collateral damage, including to herself and her friends. Concealment, on the other hand…

 _“Nubes Minuta,”_ she whispered, and a bank of fog appeared between them and the Death Eaters, so dense that anyone inside it would _literally_ have difficulty seeing their hand in front of their face. The three of them dropped down as spells began firing blindly over their heads.

Anyone could create fog with a modified _Aguamenti_ , but Hermione could do it ten times more efficiently than anyone else. She had looked up the optical properties of water droplets and calculated that there was a certain size that was most efficient at scattering light per unit mass, and that size was three quarters of a micron, much smaller than a normal Fog-Making Charm (or natural fog, for that matter) would produce. Half a pint of water could fill the entire width of the Alley with the stuff.

George pulled Fred and Hermione into a gap between two buildings while Hermione kept spraying fog behind them. It was so thick that the Death Eaters wouldn’t even see the gap as they ran by. George fell to one knee and stifled a cry of pain, but he whispered, “Nice one.”

“Thanks,” she replied. “Are we out of the wards?”

“No, but if we’re lucky, they’ll think we escaped and leave.”

“They’re smarter than that, some of them,” she said.

“But they’re also being chased by the Order. Fred, how’re you doing?”

Fred was shaking, his wand loose in his hand, and seemingly unable to speak. Now that she noticed, George wasn’t looking so good either. His robes were torn open at the shoulder; blood was running down his back, and his trouser leg was bloody. Hermione’s nose was still bleeding, too, and she felt a bump on her head growing where she hadn’t even felt herself hit it.

“Crap, I don’t know if I can get up again and help him too,” George hissed.

“We might not have a choice,” Hermione breathed. She got ready to run and prayed she could somehow get George and Fred out of there with her, but suddenly, they heard a voice calling through the fog: “Hermione?”

“Harry!” Hermione shouted. She vanished the fog, but kept her shield up.

“Merlin, can’t see a thing here,” Harry said. He stumbled into view and stopped when he saw Hermione’s wands, raising his own in a snap.

“Hang on, hang on. Damn, um…What were the last words Dumbledore said to the two of us?” she asked quickly.

Harry opened his mouth, then frowned in confusion. “Um…it must’ve been, ‘Remember, this excursion never happened.’”

Hermione sighed with relief and lowered her shield. “Thank God,” she said.

“Bloody hell, what happened to you?”

“A lot.”

“Are you all alright?” Harry asked.

“We’ll live. The Order?”

“I don’t know. I couldn’t see the whole thing.”

“Fred! George!” Molly’s shout called out, and she ran to her boys.

“Mum!” the Twins shouted.

“Oh, thank Merlin you’re alive. And you too, Hermione. Are you hurt? Of course you’re hurt. Come on, we have to get out of here fast.” She helped them to their feet and pulled them along towards the rest of the group. “We’ll get you to Muriel’s. We have enough to heal you up there.”

“Is everyone else okay, Molly?” Hermione asked, pinching her nose to stop the blood.

“We’ll all live,” Molly said. “Mad-Eye lost his leg, but it was the wooden one. Kingsley got dinged up pretty bad, but Emmeline and Hestia can manage with him. Now let’s go.”

* * *

The group had to Apparate at the edge of the Fidelius Charm at Prewett Manor, and they stumbled up the garden path to the house—all the Weasleys, plus Hermione and Harry. The others didn’t come back to the manor. Old Muriel, leaning on her cane, stood on the porch to meet them.

“Oh, no. I _knew_ those two would come to no good,” she said. “Come on, bring them in. Quickly. And mind, _try_ not to get bloodstains on the carpet.” That was about as worried and sympathetic as Muriel got.

Molly helped Fred and George lie down on conjured mats on the floor for lack of usable furniture. Hermione could still stand and began to conjure a rag to wipe her face, but suddenly, Fleur grabbed her by the robes and slammed her against the wall.

“Fleur, what—?” Hermione raised her wand…

And Fleur knocked it out of her hand with a lightning fast, silent _Expelliarmus_. The scorching heat coming from the woman’s hands made her threat clear. _“What was the first thing I said to Hermione Granger when we met?”_ she hissed in French.

Hermione blinked a few times as her brain skidded over the memory, trying to piece it together. “Er…it was, ‘ _Excuse me, are you lost, little girl? This is the seventh-year class._ _’”_

Fleur lowered her wand, but she continued to glare at Hermione

“You know, we really need to come up with some rotating code phrases,” Hermione said awkwardly. “Security questions aren’t secure against interrogation—or even just being too widely known.”

“ _You_ don’t ‘ave room to comment on security,” Fleur growled. “Not after what you did.”

“Fleur, what did she do?” said Arthur, who was nursing a bruise on his head.

“Mum, I think Fred was hit with a _Purexis!_ ” Bill interrupted.

Molly gasped. “Fever reducers! Hurry!” she said.

“Fred?” George said in horror. He pushed himself to his feet against his mother’s protests, but he collapsed at once and had to crawl to his twin’s side. _Purexis_ was a potentially life-threatening fever-inducing curse that had to be treated quickly, preferably in hospital, which wasn’t an option now. The family crowded around, but Fleur shooed them away as she fed Fred a potion. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, and he looked completely out of it. There were still cuts on his face.

“Will he be okay?” George said, sounding very small and scared.

Fleur sighed wearily: “‘E should be, but ‘e will need close watching overnight.”

“George, please _stay still_ ,” Molly insisted. “You’re making it worse.”

George sat heavily on a stool and winced as Molly peeled off his robes with trembling hands, and Hermione gasped almost as loudly as she did when she saw the damage. His left arm was bent at the wrong angle. There was heavy bruising around his chest that betrayed broken ribs, plus a deep gash in his shoulder to add to the faint scars from Argus Filch’s whip. And his left leg…the abuse of running away from the fight had driven the bone through the skin and it was absolutely soaked with blood.

“ _Ooh!_ Oh, I need more _hands_ ,” Molly said as hers were stained red from her work. “Oh, my baby. How did you even run like this?”

Hermione looked away, unable to bear the sight, and looked down at her arm, where he buckler had shattered. Her basilisk-skin coat had protected her from most of it, but there were a couple of nicks in her hand. She wondered if they would scar. Secondhand exposure to the Killing Curse was nasty business.

“Hold still, George,” Molly muttered. “Now, _please_ , what happened? And what did Hermione do?”

“She nearly got us killed, is what she did,” he said, his voice heavy with resignation. “What were _thinking_ Apparating in to the front of the shop like that, Hermione?”

She hung her head. “I _wasn_ _’t_ thinking,” she said. “I’m so sorry, George. I just wanted to get to you, and I didn’t think about the fact that the Death Eaters would probably be attacking from the front.”

“ _That_ _’s_ where you were? You Apparated in _front_ of the shop?” Harry said. He limped over to her. She couldn’t see what was wrong with his leg, but she thought he ought to sit down, too.

“Zat ees why I had to check ‘er,” Fleur said coldly, staring at her, “to make sure she did not do eet deliberately.”

“Ugh, Merlin’s bollocks this is screwed up,” George said.

“I know—” Hermione started.

“You could’ve been killed before you even knew what was going on!” he yelled over her.

“I know—”

“I swear, if anything happens to Fred…” He choked before he could continue.

“He’ll be fine, George. Don’t worry,” Molly said, though she didn’t sound very reassured herself. “You have some very deep cuts there. Arthur, I need a Blood-Replenishing Potion. Now, Hermione, I’m glad you’re alright, but that was very foolish of you.”

“I know, Molly,” she bit back tears. “All I could think was that George—and Fred were in danger and I wanted to get to them as fast as possible, and I didn’t think about the conditions where I was going.”

“I thought you were supposed to be on top of that stuff,” George snapped.

“I’m _trying._ Really, I am, but I can’t be right every time—”

“You _have_ to be right every time!” he shouted. He leaned towards her, but Molly held him back from getting up. “The Death Eaters only have to be right once, and you’re _dead_ —or _Fred_ _’s_ dead—or somebody else is dead—like Dumbledore.”

Hermione gasped. She didn’t think this would go _there_. “You—are you trying to blame me for _Dumbledore_ _’s_ death?”

“And why not?” Muriel cut in. “You were there, weren’t you? What did _you_ do, hmm?”

“That—he—I did what he _told_ me,” she said. “It was his own mistake and Draco Malfoy that killed him.”

“You _did_ say it was your idea to cut off his finger,” said George.

“You cut off Dumbledore’s finger?” Muriel said, scandalised.

“It wasn’t like that!” Harry jumped in.

“No—! I mean yes—I mean I suggested it, and he accepted,” Hermione said. “His hand had been cursed, and _none_ of us knew what else to do.”

“But _you_ _’re_ the one who nearly got Bill killed by inferi,” Fleur pointed out.

“On a mission he agreed to!”

“But you’re the one who forgot to call for ‘elp, weren’t you?”

“Fleur, don’t,” Bill cut her off.

Fleur screeched, bird-like, and pushed him away. “She needs to learn not to make these mistakes. Someone could ‘ave died tonight, too.”

Hermione felt like she’d been punched in the gut. She knew she’d been sloppy, and this was the second time in not too long a period where it could have got someone killed.

“She’s right, you know,” George said. “You were really careless.”

“I _know_ , George. I screwed up.”

“Fred could’ve _died!_ ” he said, raising his voice. “Fever Curse, a concussion, cursed wounds—I saw his face. He’s not gonna be the same after this.”

“I know, and I have to live with that,” she sobbed. “Please, I just want to help—”

“I think you’ve done enough,” George said.

Hermione snapped back like she’d been bitten. She couldn’t remember George ever looking at her with such coldness. Desperate, she tried one more time: “Look, I know I messed up. I’m trying to fight a war that I’m not at all equipped for, and…and I nearly got us all killed, yes. But I want to _fix_ it. I don’t want this to happen again any more than you do, but right now, I’m just trying to get by with what I’ve got because I don’t know what else I can do.”

George stared at her, but then slowly lowered his gaze. “Hermione…I…Look, I can’t do this right now.”

“George—” Hermione said, reaching out to him.

“Hermione,” Molly said gently. “I think it would be better if you waited in the guest bedroom.”

Hermione stood dumbfounded for a moment, then turned and nearly ran out of the room, pushing past Ron and Ginny to get to the guest bedroom. She sat down on the edge of the bed and pressed her hands over her eyes. This was a complete screwup. Fred was hurt bad, George was so worried about him that he couldn’t stand to be in the same room with her, and the worst part was, it really did start with her mistake. She came in in the wrong place, and Fred nearly died for it. And he wasn’t completely out of the woods yet.

After a few minutes trying to quell her racing thoughts, Hermione opened her handbag. She’d screwed up so thoroughly that she wanted to do something— _anything_ —to try to make up for it. She pulled out some of her notes on the Killing Curse and tried to work them over, but after just a minute of concentration, she was so frustrated that she threw them down, scattering them over the floor, and flopped back onto the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nubes Minuta: Latin for “small cloud”. Inspired by Harry Potter and Ice Cream Delights by Luckner.  
> Purexis: Credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.


	58. Chapter 58

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is an existence and uniqueness solution to Harry Potter.
> 
> As I expected, the last chapter was a controversial one. A lot of reviewers didn’t like how everyone was supposedly turning against Hermione, especially George. But that chapter went exactly the way I wanted. Take note: first, Hermione is sleep-deprived and is to some extent an unreliable narrator, not least because she’s being as hard on herself as everyone else is right now. Second, it’s not really everyone who turned on her. It was mostly George, Fleur, and Muriel, each of whom will be addressed in this chapter.
> 
> And I would especially say don’t be so hard on George. Yes, he said some harsh words in the heat of the moment (which Muriel then went and made worse), but you only got to see *a few minutes* of his reaction at a very emotional time. His and Hermione’s relationship isn’t perfect, but they can resolve this. Besides, compared with Ron—honestly, even how Canon!Ron would be in this situation—I’d say he’s still doing pretty well.

To Hermione’s surprise, it was Percy who came into the guest bedroom to tend her wounds not many minutes later. “Here, let me help, Hermione,” he said. “I took some basic Healer courses. You need those injuries looked at, too.” He sighed wearily. “For what it’s worth, I know what its like to screw up and have everyone get mad at me, and I was a lot more pigheaded than you.” She sat up, and he looked closely at her forehead and grimaced. “Ew. What is this? That muggle doctor stuff Dad was talking about?”

“Yes, stitches,” she explained. “But they’re conjured.”

“Merlin’s beard, what did this?”

“George said it must’ve been an Instant Scalping Hex.”

Percy shuddered: “Yeah, that would do it. Here, let me try and fix that the _right_ way.” He vanished the sutures and applied a poultice to the wound. “Anyway, I was saying I don’t think George is as angry as he sounds. He’s just in such a state over Fred…It’s probably hard to understand if you don’t have siblings. Hell, _I_ don’t really understand it, and I’m their brother. They’ve been together for everything.”

“I know,” she said meekly. “The rare times they _do_ fight, I can’t stand to see them turned against each other. I can’t understand their twin thing either, even…even though I’m dating him,” she haltingly.

Percy nodded. “So just give him some time to cool down,” he said. “Enough so they’re both doing better. Fred looks like he’ll be okay…And you need to get some rest, too.” He waved his wand over her and hummed to himself. “You didn’t come out too bad yourself, considering…cuts and bruises, a nasty bruise on your head, but no concussion, thankfully. Broken nose. Burns on your neck. A couple of cursed nicks on your hand.”

“I deserved worse,” she said.

“ _No_ ,” Percy insisted. “Don’t talk like that. You made a mistake, and you paid for it. It happens, no matter how much we don’t want it to. People got hurt, but we all got out alive. The important thing is that you learn from it.”

Hermione sighed and nodded slowly.

“Okay, I fixed your head wound and cleaned it up, and mended your nose,” he said. “I think you can handle the rest. I brought a couple salves for you. Try to get some sleep for now. George should be more or less back to normal by morning.”

“Thanks, Percy,” she dismissed him. She did try to sleep, really. It didn’t come easy, and it was fitful when it came. It didn’t last long, either, because she got an idea.

Hermione bolted out of bed at two in the morning, turned on the light, and picked up her notes on the Killing Curse off the floor, frantically flipping through them. “Yes, yes, no, yes,” she muttered. “Oh, where is it—there! No, no, yes— _yes! I_ _’ve got it!_ ”

* * *

George came knocking on Hermione’s door around nine o’clock.

“Come in,” she said without thinking.

George entered the bedroom to find Hermione standing on the bed, looking back and forth to the papers in her hands whilst writing advanced equations on the wall. He was leaning on a crutch, but was on his feet. He stopped and looked around. There were papers scattered all over the desk, with some on the floor and the bed, and she didn’t look like she was slowing down anytime soon. At some point, she had transfigured two of the walls into blackboards to give herself more space.

“Hermione?” he said. “What are you doing?”

“Working on the Killing Curse,” she said. “I think I’m close to cracking it.”

He looked around at the equations again. “Have you been up all night?”

“I slept a little,” she continued without looking at him. “I woke up around two with an inspiration into the problem and had to get this down before I forgot…I suppose I’ve got too accustomed to the blackboards.”

“Bloody hell, do you know what time it is.”

She glanced out the window. “Morning, I guess. I did sleep another hour or two in the middle.”

“Hermione—can you please stop for a minute?”

She stopped writing and turned around to face at him, her hands falling to her sides. She looked at him expectantly, still standing on the bed.

“You’re walking again,” she stated.

“Yes. Wasn’t hurt so much besides the broken bones,” he said. “Mum says it’ll be fine in a few days. Look, I’m really sorry for yelling at you last night.”

“I deserved it,” she said, averting her eyes a little.

“Maybe some of it, yeah, but I shouldn’t have been so harsh. I was panicking because you and Fred nearly died, and I made a total arse of myself.”

“I know, George. Percy explained it last night. I understand, you couldn’t bear to lose Fred.”

“Ugh, don’t you understand? I can’t lose _either_ of you, Hermione!” he snapped. Hermione froze and her eyes widened slightly. “You saw what it was like last night. Fred’s still sick, and you nearly took a bloody Killing Curse to the face! I saw both of you get hurt like that, and I felt like I was dying myself. I love you, and I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you.”

Hermione’s breath hitched, and she blinked back tears as George offered her his hand and helped her step down from the bed. “George, I…” she started to say.

He cut her off: “You don’t have to say anything you wouldn’t say if you weren’t beating yourself up and had actually slept properly. I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry, and I’m still here for you—but I _will_ prank you into next week if you go and nearly get yourself killed like that again.”

“George, I…” she started again, but then she trailed off. She almost dropped it, but she couldn’t. She remembered exactly what was going through her mind last night when she got them into this mess in the first place, and she couldn’t ignore it. “I love you,” she said.

George’s gasped softly, and his eyes widened. Neither of them spoke, but a moment later, George smiled, just a little, and they both leaned in and kissed. It was quick, almost perfunctory, the circumstances just too strained for it to be anything that could be called romantic, but it was…sincere, she supposed, and that would do for now.

“I really am sorry, too,” she said. “I can’t stand the fact that I made such an obvious mistake, and you and Fred got hurt worse than I did.”

“But we didn’t block a Killing Curse with a bloody medieval _shield_ ,” he countered.

They stared at each other again, not touching, unsure of what to say. They would need time to deal with everything that had happened, and they still had everyone else to worry about right now.

“So…Fred’s doing better,” George said. “His fever’s gone down, and Bill says there shouldn’t be any permanent damage—from _that_ , anyway. We haven’t told him…”

“Right…But he’s doing better now?” she said.

“Yeah, he should recover just fine.” They stood in silence for a minute. “You should get some more sleep,” he told her.

“Yeah, probably,” she admitted, but he could tell from her tone her more immediate concern.

“You want to come see him?” he asked.

She thought for a moment. “Yeah, sure.”

They walked to a different bedroom, where Fred was still laid out with the rest of the family taking turns sitting with him—currently Molly. He was still kind of out of it, but he was talking again, and he wanted to know how Hermione was doing.

“I’m okay, Fred,” she told him. “But I’m so sorry. I screwed up everything.”

“Eh, not everything,” he replied. “You also got us out of there. That trick to go through the wall was pretty cool.”

“You still nearly died.”

“And I saw _you_ block a Killing Curse, so you’ve got me beat there. Isn’t that what you’ve been working on all month, after all.”

She shook her head in confusion. “I’m not—I mean, I am, but blocking it _magically_. Anyone can summon a shield to stop it. That doesn’t help my…other projects…Anyway, I’m glad you’re doing better.”

Suddenly, there was a sound of what seemed to be someone vomiting in the next room, and everyone looked at each other in surprise.

“What was that?” asked Fred.

“I don’t know,” Molly said. “I’ll go check.”

She hurried out of the room, and they soon heard the sound of muffled arguing. Hermione poked her head out the door and saw Molly escorting Bill and Fleur to the sitting room. She followed to see what was happening with George helping Fred behind her. She was worried when she saw Bill was supporting Fleur, who looked tired and grumpy and the closest she ever came to unattractive (which in practice meant she was still a very pretty woman wearing a just-rolled-out-of-bed look).

“That’s it,” Molly said to her. “Have a seat here, Fleur. Are you sick? Do you need me to get you something?”

Fleur grunted and shook her head no.

“Well, you certainly sound like it,” she insisted. “If something’s wrong—”

“Mum—” Bill cut her off. “Listen, we wanted to tell you at a better time…”

Fleur groaned: “Ugh. Eet’s morning sickness, Molly.”

Molly gasped, bringing her hands to her mouth. Fred flopped against the wall behind Hermione and called out, “Bloody hell!” And Ginny let out a high-pitched squeal that hurt Hermione’s ears a bit.

“Fleur? Bill?” Molly squeaked, her eyes grown to saucer sized, and she rushed over to hug them. “Oh, this is so wonderful! I had no idea!”

Bill and Fleur exchanged a look with the others that seemed to say, _And you wonder why we kept this quiet._

“Congratulations, you two!” Molly continued. “Although I admit I’m a bit surprised. I thought you weren’t going to a while.”

“We weren’t,” Fleur said. She was turning beet red. “But zere’s a war on, and eet’s ‘ard, and…well sometimes we forget zee Contraceptive Charm.”

“Ah,” Molly scoffed. She put her hands on her hips and stared at Bill, though not too angrily. “I see you take after your father, then,” she said.

“Mum!” Bill shouted as he turned a colour that couldn’t possibly be healthy.

“Merlin’s beard,” Ron groaned.

“We did _not_ need to hear that,” said Fred and George in unison.

“Mum, there are _children_ present. We don’t need to hear how Bill got here,” Ginny said half-seriously, even though she and Harry were the only underage people in the house.

“Er, Ginny? You _do_ know when the last war was at its worst, don’t you?” Arthur said. “She was kind of talking about you.”

_“DAD!”_

Hermione had to suppress a giggle, while Harry looked like he was about to pass out from embarrassment, the poor boy. The rest of the Weasley kids weren’t quite in the mindset to laugh at Ginny’s expense.

“So when is the baby due?” Molly asked Fleur.

“Near zee end of February, we think,” she answered. “I found out just before Bill went on zat mission to zee cave. Eet just never seemed to be a good time to tell you after zat.”

Hermione grimaced. “Oh…” she said. From that perspective, she was surprised Fleur’s animosity towards her at the time wasn’t worse. “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Fleur waved her off: “You weren’t meant to. Eet’s not important now.” She moaned again and rubbed her stomach. “Ugh. And I guess I was a bit of a _chienne_ to you last night.”

Hermione shook her head: “No harder on me than I was…Anyway, congratulations, Fleur.” She trailed off awkwardly and turned around to see the Twins. “Fred, you should lie down,” she said.

“Ah, I’ve been lying down all night,” he said. “Just get me a chair.” George helped him into his seat, and everyone watched him uncomfortably.

Finally, Hermione said it: “I’m sorry about your face, Fred.”

“My face?” he said. “What’s wrong with my face?”

Molly burst into tears.

“Mum!”

“Fred,” Hermione spoke up again. “My shield—it kind of exploded…”

“Oh, come on, it can’t be that bad,” he protested, but he got a curious look and gingerly touched his face. It wasn’t bandaged, although it had a liberal supply of burn salve on it. “Really, George and I have had stuff blow up in our faces loads of times.” The rest of him family stayed grim. “Wh-what? How bad is it?”

Bill stood up and conjured a mirror, approaching him. “The burns should heal fully,” she said. “But the shrapnel—that shield was hit with a lot of dark magic when it exploded. It’ll leave scars.” He held up the mirror to him.

Fred had a number of minor marks on his face, most of which probably wouldn’t be too noticeable once they healed. But on his cheeks, where he’d been hit with the worst of the shrapnel, he had two pairs of angry red lines radiating out across his face like whiskers, making him look like a demented fox. He immediately sagged with relief. “Well, that’s not so bad,” he said. “The way you all were carrying on, I was afraid I was gonna have to wear a mask like that muggle opera guy.”

Molly started crying again.

“Hey, Mum, look on the bright side. You’ll be able to tell us apart, now. Besides, scars are sexy.”

George groaned. “You’re ridiculous. Try telling that to Mad-Eye, and see what _he_ says.”

“Um, actually…” Bill spoke up, “you haven’t heard about the time Tonks tried to come on to him…”

* * *

Hermione got a little more sleep, but not much. Even when she was exhausted, it was hard for her to sleep more than an hour or two at a stretch in the daytime. For the most part, she was relieved that things had calmed down. George had relaxed once Fred was better, and Bill was helping Fleur. Hermione, however, went back to her maths. She was too close to give up. After most of another day’s work and a nap or two, she’d finally finished the proof, but ultimately, it didn’t go as well as she’d hoped. She stepped back and surveyed her work. There it was, all in one piece, fitting together perfectly. It was beautiful in the way only a mathematical proof can be, with all the stark, desolate beauty of the surface of the Moon.

And so, she stumbled wearily back into the sitting room. Fred and George were still convalescing, but they were mostly able to resume normal household activities (which was pretty restrictive by their standards). She sat down dejectedly, and everyone looked at her.

“Hermione, what’s wrong?” Harry asked.

“I finally proved it: there _is_ a way to magically block the Killing Curse.”

Everyone suddenly turned very excited. “There is?” Bill said.

“That’s _big_ ,” said Arthur.

“Hermione, that’s great!” Ginny said. “That could be a huge help.”

“No,” she said. “It’s not what you think. There’s only _one_ way.”

“So?” said Ron.

“Yeah, so there’s only one way,” Ginny agreed. “What is it?”

“Technically, the proof didn’t actually say—”

“What?”

“It’s an existence-uniqueness proof,” Hermione explained. “It says that there’s exactly one solution, but it doesn’t say what it is.”

“But how does it help us, then?”

Hermione scoffed. “It doesn’t matter. We already _know_ the one way to magically block the Killing Curse.” She turned and stared at Harry, her eyes fixed on his scar.

“…Oh,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“But, what about Harry’s…The thing Dumbledore wanted?” Ginny asked.

“Not disproved, if that’s what you’re worried about. But this was completely the wrong line of thinking to get there.”

Several people groaned softly, and Fleur said, “Seriously?”

“I’m disappointed too, Fleur,” she said.

“I zought we already knew ‘ow to… _destroy zee_ _items_ ,” Fleur whispered.

“Fleur,” Bill cut in quietly. “Not the same project.”

“Then what—?”

“Please, this isn’t something you need to know about.”

Fleur sighed heavily. “Fine, Bill. ‘Ermione, I ‘ope you find what you need.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “I have some other leads to work on. I’ll get back to you later.” She turned and walked back to the guest bedroom. The last thing she saw was the disappointed look on Ginny’s face.

George followed her. “Hermione,” he called, soon catching up with her and taking her hand. “Come on, you’re exhausted as it is. You don’t have to beat yourself over one setback. You’ve been doing that enough already.”

“I can’t just leave it be, George,” she said. “I messed up again and wasted a month.”

“You _didn_ _’t_ mess up, and you didn’t waste it,” he insisted. “You said yourself that this would hard, and it would take time, and there would be false starts. You may have had the wrong idea, but it wasn’t anything you didn’t plan for. And besides, at any other time, that proof would be one of the crowning achievements of your career, wouldn’t it?”

“But right now, it’s useless,” she spat.

“But you’re still making progress, aren’t you? You have a better idea now of how to go about it, right?”

“I guess.”

“Then there you go.” He kissed her. “Try to take it easy. You’re doing fine.”

“I’m worried about Ginny,” Hermione said. “She’s put all her faith in me solving this. Not to mention Harry himself.”

George thought about this for a minute and sighed. “Yeah, I guess she has.”

“It could still wind up being impossible,” she noted.

“Yeah, but you aren’t going to give up until you prove it is, are you?”

“No! Of course not!”

“Then you’re already doing all you can. Get some rest, and try not to worry about it so much.”

“I’ll try,” she said.

* * *

“More bad news, I’m afraid,” Arthur said when he returned from a reconnaissance mission into magical London with a copy of the _Daily Prophet_. “They went ahead and let Umbridge out of Azkaban.”

Hermione hissed like an angry cat. Most of the Weasleys shared similar sentiments.

“Hold on, that’s not all,” he said. “There’s a long article condemning those new _Quibbler_ pamphlets, and a short article talking about the Ministry starting a new ‘study on muggle-born ancestry’.”

“Bastards,” Hermione spat. “Just like I said. It’s the Muggle-Born Registration Commission under another name.”

“Yes, I expected it,” Percy said unhappily. “I figured they’d want to speed it up after we spoke against them.”

“Well, whatever it is, I can read between the lines enough to tell they’re dedicating a lot of money and resources to it, so you’re probably right,” Arthur said. “And there’s this.” He held up a full page ad with Harry’s and Hermione’s faces, labelled _Undesirable No. 1_ and _Undesirable No. 2_.

“‘Undesirable’ already?” Hermione protested. “How come? I thought they were going to start with ‘wanted for questioning’.”

“For libel and sedition against the Ministry, apparently,” Arthur said. “They can’t prove you did it, but those pamphlets make for a convenient scapegoat.”

“With the added benefit of being true, at least on the sedition part,” Percy agreed. “But you know how people will believe anything. Didn’t you say something about telling a big enough lie so that people will believe it, Hermione?”

“Not exactly, but the sentiment is close enough.”

“Arthur, did you see any other Order members?” Molly asked him.

“I did. Got a little information. Kingsley’s recovered, mostly. Professor McGonagall is trying to put in safeguards at Hogwarts for the students when the Ministry takes control. She doesn’t fully trust Snape.”

Molly sniffed at that. “I don’t fully trust him either, no matter what Dumbledore said.”

“Not that it matters. It’s not safe for any of us to go back there,” Ginny pointed out. Molly crossed her arms, but didn’t protest, which showed just how serious it was.

“Speaking of,” Arthur added, “Ginny, I had Doge smuggle yours and Luna’s O.W.L. results out of the Ministry.” He handed her an envelope.

Ginny took the letter with wide eyes and opened it. She looked over her scores and grinned. “O’s and E’s in everything important,” she said. “O in Defence.”

“Oh, Ginny, that’s wonderful,” Molly said. She looked between Ginny and Ron wistfully. “Maybe we _should_ consider Beauxbatons, Arthur.”

“Screw that!” Ginny protested. “I want to fight.”

“You’re not of age, Ginny,” her mother responded.

“I can still fight. Plus, Harry needs all the support he can get.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” Molly snapped. “You’ve hardly even seen real fighting yet.”

“I was there when the Burrow was destroyed. And Fred and George’s shop.”

“Only because we didn’t have time to stop you!”

“Molly,” Hermione said softly. “We can keep Ginny safe here or at the factory. She’d be wasting her time at Beauxbatons. She’d have to take the French N.M.O.’s as a sixth year. It’d be like repeating her O.W.L. year all over again, except in French. With marks like that, she’s decently qualified already. And the fact is, she _is_ a pretty good fighter, to the extent any of us are.”

“Yeah, and I _am_ of age,” Ron added, though it probably didn’t help.

Molly slumped, looking around at the children. It was already a given that Harry and Hermione weren’t going back to school, and she knew Hermione was right, so there wasn’t much she could say. “We’ll think about it,” she conceded. “Was there anything else, Arthur?”

Arthur sighed. “Doge wants to lie low and appeal to the ICW for help. Mad-Eye’s itching to go out and do _something_ , but he doesn’t have many good ideas for _what_. Tonks is pregnant too—did you know about that? Same reason as Bill and Fleur, I’d wager. So she and Remus don’t want to see much action for a while. And with all of us being forced out of the Ministry and hunted down by Death Eaters, it’s harder and harder for us to coordinate _anything_ , so…”

“I actually have some thoughts on that,” Hermione said. “Or rather, Ron and I do.”

“Oh? Ron?” he said in surprise.

Ron drew himself up importantly and explained, “I got the idea from that muggle book Hermione gave me for my birthday. It’s about fighting a resistance and stuff. A lot of it’s totally nuts, but the way it talks about cells communicating—well, it has to do with the rings Hermione made. We’d divide the Order up into cells of just a few people—three, if we can. And…uh, it’s a bit complicated. Who’s actually leading the Order now, Dad?”

“Well, no one, really,” Arthur said, “which is exactly our problem. Probably Kingsley and Mad-Eye, if it’s any of us.”

“Okay, pick them and somebody else. Hell, it could even be Harry. Hermione gives each of them a ring with a Protean Charm that connects to three other people instead of everybody. No, wait: connects to three other _rings_ , so she doesn’t know who they go to, either. And give each of those nine a second ring that connects to three more.”

“That should cover just about the whole Order, son, but what’s the point?”

“Security,” Hermione said, but then, she looked at Ron sheepishly and let him continue.

“What she said. The Death Eaters can’t catch all of us so easily if each person is only talking to a few others, but the leaders can still send messages down the chain quickly. I know the Order kind of already all know each other, but it’s better than nothing.”

“That’s…that’s actually a really good idea,” Arthur agreed. “Good one, Ron. We don’t have a way to coordinate the whole Order except with Hermione’s rings, and that’s already messy going to so many.”

“We could connect Dumbledore’s Army into the same network,” Hermione pointed out. “The ones who have left school, anyway.”

“We have the galleons, though,” Harry said.

“But half of those people are in Hogwarts and half are out of it,” Ron explained. “They’re not so good for what we need to do now. You’re up to it, Hermione, right?”

“Sure,” she answered. “I can make a bunch of rings fast enough. And if Bill helps, we can even add Flesh Memories to them so they’ll only work for the recipient. Mind, they won’t be nearly as reliable and tamper-proof as a professional Snitch, but it’s something.”

“Yes, this could work,” Arthur said eagerly. “We might be able to coordinate some action with that plan.”

“I hope so,” Harry said. “You-Know-Who’s forces are _moving_ , and we’re stuck here in hiding.”

Hermione turned to him. “Harry,” she said. “You have to remember, a lot of us aren’t going to be fighting directly. But yes, we should think about what we can do. That’s probably more _your_ department, though.”

Harry’s eyebrows raised a little. “Mine? What do you mean?”

She looked around the room. “You all were right about one thing the other night,” she said. “Harry is a better…battlefield commander than I am, for lack of a better term. Ron’s a better strategist. I can invent spells and other useful tactics, but if there’s fighting to be done, you two should be the ones to plan it.”

“They’re only seventeen, Hermione,” Molly said. “Harry’s not even seventeen yet.”

“And Harry’s parents were eighteen when they joined the Order, Molly,” Arthur pointed out. “If they’re good enough at it, planning will be one of the few things they can really contribute.”

“We’ll do it,” Harry said.

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “I dunno what we’ll do yet, but we can help plan things out.”

“I would make one suggestion for you, Ron,” Hermione offered.

“What?”

“Since Bill will be taking less of an active role for a while, maybe he could teach you some more runic and warding magic. You _do_ have a talent for it.”

Ron turned and looked at Bill. “Yeah, I can do that,” he said.

“Good,” Harry said. “So the first thing is, what’s the rest of the Order going to do?”

Bill shook his head: “I don’t know that there’s much we _can_ do until we figure out how to kill You-Know-Who.”

“How to kill him?” Percy said in confusion. “You mean we don’t know how?”

Everyone who knew about the horcruxes stared at each other, trying to decide how to address this.

“You-Know-Who created…” Harry started.

“Safeguards,” Hermione said.

“Yeah, safeguards that basically make him unbeatable. They’re how he came back before, and we have to disable them to get rid of him for good.”

“There’s one particular artifact that we need to find to do it, and we don’t know where he hid it,” Hermione explained. “That’s the part that’s absolutely essential—gathering intelligence and figuring out where that artifact is so we can get it. Then, there’s the assignment that Dumbledore gave me before he died. That one’s a secret, I’m afraid, and it’ll take months to finish. It’s not a hundred percent essential, but it’ll make things a lot easier.”

“Hmm, that’s worrying,” Arthur said. “A lot can happen in a few months, especially with You-Know-Who already controlling the Ministry. But there are always other things we can do. Keeping our own people safe, striking back against the Death Eaters where we can and derailing their plans.”

“What about killing Death Eaters?” Ron suggested.

“There’s only so much we can do at the moment, Ron,” Arthur warned. “Most of the Death Eaters are very skilled and a lot quicker to use dark magic than we are. If we find an opportunity to…well, get some of them out of the picture, we might do it, but we can’t make it a priority with what we have available.”

“So it’s just a waiting game, now?” Ron protested. “I mean, I know about Hermione’s, er, assignment, but I don’t want to sit by and watch the Death Eaters destroy Britain.”

“Me either,” Harry agreed.

“We’re doing the best we can, boys. I don’t like it either. People are getting hurt and killed, and it seems like we’re outnumbered all the time, but this is all we have. I’ve seen You-Know-Who fight. _You_ _’ve_ seen Bellatrix fight, and Rookwood and others. We don’t have a hope of overpowering them. But with coordination, we can strike at some weak points.

Ron had a brain wave: “Like Umbridge? She’s got a lot of power, and she wasn’t too good at magic, I think.”

“No,” Harry confirmed. “Aside from cursing Luna, anyway, she wasn’t.”

“If we can get close to her, yes,” Arthur agreed. “I don’t like her any more than you do, and I wager she’ll be controlling a lot of the Death Eaters’ public face, wittingly or not.”

“She’ll be guarded,” Percy warned. “She likes to feel powerful, and she’s not a risk-taker. It won’t be easy. But Dad’s right. There _are_ ways the Order can take the fight to them without a direct confrontation.”

“You know how the Ministry’s security works, don’t you, Percy?” Ron asked.

“I knew how it worked when I left,” he corrected. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“Good,” said Arthur. “That’s the kind of thing to look into while Hermione figures out the rings and the other stuff. Fred, George, I know you were talking about creating your own wireless station, but with your shop gone, I don’t know what you’ll be doing.”

“We can do it from the factory,” Fred told him.

“Alongside _Liberation_ ,” George added.

“The factory?” Molly said. “You mean you’re planning to move in with Hermione?”

“And Harry and the Lovegoods,” he hastened to add.

“Right…of course…But is that safe? What if they track down where you’re broadcasting from?”

“It’s under Fidelius, Mum, and Hermione’s the Secret Keeper. It’s about as safe as can be.”

“Yeah, there’s really not much danger when we’re hidden away,” Fred agreed. “There’s just not much we can _do_ from there.”

Molly sighed. Hermione suspected there were other reasons she wasn’t keen on the arrangement, but that was a fairly silly thing to worry about at a time like this in her opinion. “Well…I can’t stop you any more than I can stop Harry and Hermione, boys, but I do wish we could keep the family together.”

“It’s safer to break us up into smaller groups, Molly,” Hermione offered. “Fewer eggs in one basket that way. As it is, we’ll have six people in the factory.”

Ron and especially Ginny sputtered at this. They didn’t like being separated from Harry so much, even if they didn’t have much choice.

“I’m sure they’ll be alright, Molly,” Arthur said. “I trust Hermione.”

“I know, Arthur, but you can’t stop a mother worrying, and Harry and Hermione might as well be ours as much as the rest of them.”

* * *

Harry’s birthday was celebrated two days later with a small party—little more than a cake baked by Molly and a couple of attempts at party games. There wasn’t opportunity to have a proper party or give gifts while they were in hiding, but he did get a few things. Molly and Arthur gave him Molly’s brother’s wristwatch, which was apparently a traditional gift in the wizarding world. Bill and Fleur gave him an enchanted razor. And Hermione gave Harry a copy of _The Postman_. It was something of an odd choice, but she thought he might sympathise with the protagonist as a man who had the role of “Chosen One” thrust upon him against his will.

The better news was that Fred and George had fully recovered, and everyone was preparing for what was shaping up as the Factory Cell (although it was Hermione’s Cell to anyone not privy to the Fidelius) to move back in the next day.

Their planning was continuing in earnest. Hermione spent the better part of several days making special Protean-Charmed rings. Instead of two rings per person, these were broad rings that were scored down the middle and carried two Protean charms on them, one for upstream and one for downstream messaging. She recommended that they be worn on different fingers by different people so as to obscure their meaning. She tried to stay out of exactly how they were distributed, but it was hard because the Order had been so interconnected under Dumbledore’s leadership.

_This comrade, second level, knows his cell leader, his two cellmates, and on the third level he knows the three in his subcell — he may or may not know his cellmates_ _’ subcells. One method doubles security, the other doubles speed—of repair if security is penetrated._

 

That was how Heinlein described it. It was dubious getting advice on how to fight a war from a science fiction author, but she could see the logic, and Heinlein himself had been a navy officer. The Order was stuck in the faster, but lower security mode. Hermione made a point of not sharing details, but it was no secret to her “cellmates” that her subcell currently consisted of Colin and Dennis Creevey, since she was their only real point of contact with the Order.

Harry’s subcell was Bill and Fleur, out of necessity. They were staying out of major operations, so they had to be lower on the chain, but Bill had to be in contact with Harry or Hermione directly for the horcrux research. This was a little awkward since Harry would also be the point of contact with the D.A., although since this was a completely separate organisation, it wasn’t too great a breach of protocol.

George’s subcell was nominally Arthur, Molly, and Percy, although Ron and Ginny were unofficial members. Ron was also connected with Bill, of course, but for the purpose of the ring network’s topology, he wouldn’t be. Hermione specifically requested them not to tell her whom they would be in contact with, if anyone. She still had her master ring for all of them, but she wouldn’t be using it much, if at all. She’d cast her net too wide when she’d come up with that system, she decided.

That left Fred. The family was taken care of, so that left him to reach out to others. Hermione asked not to be told, but she suspected that his subcell would be Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and either Katie Bell or Oliver Wood. Cedric, Septima, and other current non-members who they knew were on their side could also be incorporated into the Order much more easily now that it was compartmentalised.

Finally, she had Arthur convey a master ring to _her_ cell leader—not the leader within the cell, but the higher-ranking member who coordinated them: Kingsley. When Arthur explained Ron’s plan to him, he had reportedly been quite enthusiastic and had insisted on being the leader of whichever cell had Harry in it. Rumour was Moody had also approved. The two of them and Professor McGonagall would be the top-level cell.

Ron’s plan was already working. By the time Hermione’s cell was ready to move back to the factory, the Creevey Brothers had their rings and were sending messages.

 

_GOT PHOTOS OF MB ARREST—DROPOFF?—CC_

 

That was the first message of substance she received. They were certainly moving fast: photos of muggle-borns being arrested. So it was starting, at least if Colin was referring to what she thought he was. That would something to get out quickly. She messaged him back:

 

_YES—USUAL SPOT IN 2 DAYS—HJG_

 

That would make a good addition to the next _Liberation_ , although photos were tricky. Mr. Lovegood was mostly handling that. Meanwhile, the Twins were hammering out their radio show, tinkering with the equipment they had salvaged from their shop and planning their first broadcast, which they hoped would be soon after they returned. Hermione went to sit with them once she was done with her current business.

“Oh, good, there you are,” George said when he saw her. “We’ve got the password system working.”

“Really very clever,” Fred said. “See, normally, the Wizarding Wireless embeds a magical signature in the broadcast that only a magical set can pick up.”

“That’s the theory, anyway,” George said. “Lightning storms can scramble it enough for muggle sets to pick it up sometimes.”

“Right, but we tweaked the magical signature so that the receiver won’t catch it unless its been magically re-tuned.”

“Magical wireless sets can already be re-tuned with a spell, so we just made it so you have to use a password instead.”

“That way, you can get it on a regular receiver,” they said in unison.

“ _Wow_ ,” Hermione said. “That is _really_ impressive magic. Just when I think you can’t surprise me anymore, you pull this off. I don’t think I could have found a way to do this with a standard radio.”

“Oh, I’m sure you would’ve come up with something, Hermione,” George said with a grin.

“But now you don’t have to,” Fred told her. “So the first password is Godric, and we want to do the first broadcast next Saturday night. Do you think you can get the word out?”

“Sure, that won’t be too hard. I can put it out through the muggle-borns by word of mouth like the _Quibbler_ exposé.”

“Great!” George said and kissed her. “So we’ll handle the script and everything. We’ll probably just have you and Harry say a few words, you know, just to boost morale.”

“Right. This is a really good idea, boys. I’m sure it’ll be great,” she said.

“No doubt,” Fred grinned. “Now, codenames! I’m going to be the the Red Fox. George, you can be the Rodent.”

“I’m not gonna be the Rodent,” George said. “If I have to be an animal, I at least want to be the Raccoon.”

“That’s not even British,” Fred objected.

“Well, you’re the one who wanted them all to start with ‘R’ for no reason.”

“Wait a minute,” Hermione cut in. “There are Death Eaters who know what our voices sound like. Why are we using code-names?”

“Because it’s cooler that way,” Fred insisted.

She rolled her eyes. “We don’t need code names to be cool. We just need a cool catch phrase. How about something like…This is Radio Free Britain. If you’re listening to this message, you are the Resistance.”

“…That _is_ cool,” Fred agreed.

“But it would be cooler with code-names,” said George. “Besides, if we bring on someone who’s not that well-known, they’ll need a codename.”

“True…” she admitted. “Fine, but I’m not sold on starting with ‘R’? I could stick with Lady Archimedes. Not many people know I go by that.”

“But it totally screws up the the theme,” said Fred.

“But I won’t be a regular correspondent, though.”

“Well, there’s that…Hey, how about this? You could do a different segment from us so the theme doesn’t matter. You could do a segment as Lady Archimedes where you teach spells to use against the Death Eaters—you know, like you were doing in the D.A.”

Hermione thought about this. It would mean more people getting a hold of her spells, but the ones she’d taught were probably already in the hands of the Death Eaters, if Rookwood had anything to say about it. After all, the younger students couldn’t cast them nonverbally. And there was the prestige factor to consider. She remembered how eager the younger students were to learn _her_ spells. “That’s a good idea, George,” she said. “It’ll be a bit harder to teach without seeing it, but I can make it work.”

“Great,” George grinned. “This’ll knock them dead. Starting tomorrow, we get to work.”

* * *

It was late that evening, after Hermione, Harry, Fred, and George were packed and ready to go, that Molly asked George to speak with her privately in the kitchen. “George, I wanted to talk to you before you go,” she said. “It’s getting harder to talk face to face, and we really don’t know—” She did her best not to cry. “We don’t know how long it will be before we see each other again. I heard Hermione and Harry talking. She said it could be a long time—months, or more, before you’re done.”

“I know, Mum, but we’ll be okay,” George said.

“I’m sure you will, George,” she said, giving him a watery smile, “but I still wanted to talk to you.”

“Okay, but why me?”

“Well, you _are_ technically moving in with your girlfriend,” she said. “I’m not going to give you a hard time about it because it’s…well, it’s not for the usual reasons, but this is important.”

George felt his ears burning and sputtered for a moment. “Mum, er…Hermione is a perfectly responsible girl, and I’m happy to respect that.”

Molly shook her head: “That’s _not_ what I was talking about. I just want to ask you, how do you feel about her?”

“I love her, Mum,” George said. “I’ve never met another girl like her.”

She chuckled a little, “Oh, I think everyone she’s ever met could tell you she’s one of a kind. I’m not surprised. And how does she feel about you?”

George paused and looked up towards the stairs where Hermione’s room was, then looked back and smiled broadly. “She loves me too, Mum. She told me that morning after the shop was destroyed, and I could tell she meant it. I look at her, and I think she’s wanted to say it a couple times, but the time wasn’t right until now.”

“She wanted to know it was the real thing,” Molly guessed. “It’s understandable, especially considering you’re the only serious boyfriend she’s had.”

“That sounds like Hermione, yeah.”

“Well, I’m very happy for you two,” she said, “and since you’re leaving tomorrow…I wanted you to have this.”

George’s jaw dropped as his mum held out a _ring_ to him—a ring that he couldn’t remember ever having seen before. It was made of two interlocking bands of what he guessed were yellow gold and white gold, but it wasn’t gaudy or oversize like Renaissance rings of that type he’d seen in portraits. It was closer to the size of a modern ring and had two stones: a diamond—simply cut so that it looked dark when the light hit it right—and a ruby.

George could only stare. A witty remark came to him, but he knew better than to use it. (Fred might have said it anyway.)

“This was your Grandmother Prewett’s wedding ring,” Molly said. “It was meant to go to your Uncle Gideon or Fabian, and when they died, it was meant to go to Bill, but I decided it should go to you instead.”

“Mum…” he said. “I mean… _really?_ ”

“I don’t mean it for right away,” she said firmly. “Nothing like that. I just want you to have it for when the time is right, just in case…in case we don’t see each other again before them.”

“Mum, I…okay. Merlin,” he muttered, carefully taking the ring. “Grandmum’s ring…wow. You…you do know Hermione makes her own jewelry now, right?” He felt uncomfortable bringing up what amounted to a money issue, but he felt like he had to, especially if this had been meant for one of his older brothers.

“Yes, I do, George,” she said, “and that’s exactly why I decided to give it to you and not to Bill. I know Hermione could probably make a better ring than you could ever buy her, but that’s why I want her to have something with real meaning behind it, not just an afternoon’s wandwork.”

“You’ve…you’ve been planning this for months, Mum?” Before Bill’s and Fleur’s wedding, at least, or Bill would’ve got it.

His mum smirked at him: “Don’t you ever think I’m oblivious, George Fabian Weasley. I’ve seen how you two look at each other. Honestly, when you first started dating, I thought the poor girl had gone mad, but I’ve seen how you work together since then, and it’s something I never expected. And I can’t complain about the influence she’s had on you, either. You two are really good for each other, and I wish you all the best.”

George hugged her tight. “Thank you, Mum.” He kissed her on the cheek.

“You’re more than welcome, George…Just be sure to wait until you’re both really sure,” she warned him.

“Trust me, Mum,” he said. “Hermione’s worth waiting for.”


	59. Chapter 59

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Welcome to Fanfiction Free Britain, brought to you by JK Rowling!
> 
> Okay, so I was stuck on this chapter for ages. I know what the next big event in the story needs to be, but I just couldn’t figure out how to get from here to there. This chapter only covers part of that setup, which wasn’t what I had planned, but thing are looking up because I’ve done something that I haven’t been able to manage since The Arithmancer: plot out a detailed outline all the way to the final battle.

“Rookwood,” Voldemort demanded. “Have you figured out what it was that cut off Travers’ legs?”

“It was some kind of cutting wire, my Lord,” Rookwood said. He carefully held a piece of the thread-like ribbon from the Weasleys’ shop with dragonhide gloves. “It’s similar to what Granger used in the Department of Mysteries, but much more refined. The earlier version couldn’t cut all the way through limbs, but _this_ is the sharpest thing I’ve ever seen, and incredibly strong.”

Voldemort hissed softly. “That mudblood is becoming a thorn in my side. Something we’ve never seen before, and refined so quickly? Can you replicate it, Rookwood?”

The Death Eater paled a little. “Deepest apologies, my Lord, but I cannot. None of us saw her cast the spell, and every test I can devise tells me it’s made of _graphite_. It ought to shatter at a touch— _Ah, ah,_ but it’s easy enough to counter,” he added quickly.

“Is it?”

“Yes, my Lord. I don’t know what the hell this stuff is…but I know it’s flammable.”

* * *

The next day, Hermione, George, Harry, and Fred rejoined Mr. Lovegood and Luna at the factory, and their work resumed—Hermione on her research, the Lovegoods on _Liberation_ , the Twins on the Wireless broadcast, and Harry…Harry was a little bit adrift. He was trying to get a handle on the Order’s operations, and he was communicating with Kingsley through the new rings, but he didn’t have all that much to do directly. He may have been the Chosen One and what Hermione had called a “battlefield commander,” but that didn’t mean a whole lot in practice except that he was to defeat You-Know-Who. Hermione could tell he was antsy and wanted to do more, but he didn’t have many options.

For herself, looking back over it, her work on the Killing Curse wasn’t a total loss. In fact, her analysis of how it attacked the nervous system gave her just the clue she needed for one of the spells she was working on—a spell for incapacitation. It wasn’t derived from the Killing Curse by any means, though it _was_ fairly dark. It was more the analogy that helped her, but she would take what she could get.

As for the horcrux problem, Hermione was now pursuing her other lead: refining the _Hominem Revelio_ spell into a Soul-Detection Charm, which she could hopefully combine with her knowledge of ritual magic to achieve finer manipulation of souls, as absurd as that sounded. She was just beginning to tease out the parallel patterns in the equations.

After a week had gone by, the Wireless system was done, and George and Fred were ready for their inaugural broadcast. The password had been disseminated through the muggle-borns of Britain—a system that Hermione believed would be fairly trustworthy, considering that it worked with the original _Quibbler_ story. Thus, on Saturday evening at eight o’clock, in darkened houses and silenced rooms across Britain, Wizarding Wireless receivers were quietly switched on, waiting for the news.

Hermione stood in the back of the studio, watching the Twins in action as the broadcast began. She had offered a bit of advice on the broadcast, mostly on things like call signs and catch phrases befitting an underground radio station. When a little light with a handwritten sign that read _On Air_ lit up, and Fred began to speak.

“Good evening, and welcome to Radio Free Britain,” he said, “your source for the real news of the war.” He had deliberately put on a smoother and deeper tone to his voice for the broadcast, both to sound “sexier”—his word—and so he would sound different from George. “This is your guide through the perilous, Death Eater-dominated world we live in, the Red Fox.”

“And I’m your other guide to the pureblood dystopia, the Raccoon,” George added in something close to his normal voice.

“Now, if you’re hearing us, you’ve probably heard that we were putting out a super-secret broadcast tonight,” said Fred.

“And if you didn’t hear about this…how are you listening to us?” said George.

“Well, I’m sure everyone who’s listening is a trusted friend of someone who’s in the loop, Raccoon—unless they’re a spy! Get ‘em!”

George laughed: “But seriously, the idea here is to get the real story of the war out to you, the people of magical Britain. In case you’ve been living under a rock, the _Daily Prophet_ is run by the Ministry, and the Ministry is run by the Death Eaters. The regular Wizarding Wireless is probably being threatened into silence, _The Quibbler_ _’s_ lead editor was killed, and _Witch Weekly_ will tell you how to style your hair, but it won’t do you much good against dark wizards.”

“Our program is the first place you can go to learn what the enemy is doing and how to keep yourself safe,” Fred continued. “Our kindred spirits behind _Liberation_ , whoever they are, have the same idea, but a print newsletter can’t respond as quickly as a radio show.

“So here’s our top story this evening: the Muggle-Born Registration Commission. Of course, they’re not calling it that. The puppet Ministry’s nefarious plans were revealed back in June, and they officially scrapped them, but make no mistake, good listeners, they are still going ahead. The new agency is called the Magical Heritage Restoration Project.”

“Muggle-borns out there, do you know what the word ‘Orwellian’ means?” Fred asked. “We didn’t until a muggle-born friend of ours filled us in. Here’s your lesson of the week. It means they’re hiding their true nature by naming things the opposite of what they really are. Then, they deny they were ever considering doing anything different and stick to their lies no matter what. Don’t be fooled by the innocuous name. They say ‘restoring magical heritage’ means finding muggle-borns who are secretly related to old pureblood families to restore weakened or extinct lines to their former glory. And I’ll bet they’ll even ‘find’ a couple muggle-borns who fit the bill. But for the rest of them, soon enough, they’ll come back around to the idea that they stole their magic somehow, which is of course impossible. Muggle-borns, you know how this story ends. Don’t fall for the Ministry’s lies.”

George let Fred’s warning sink in for a few seconds, then added, “Luckily, thanks to the heroic sacrifice of Xenophilius Lovegood in publishing the final issue of _The Quibbler_ , many muggle-borns were forewarned of the trap and have already fled the country. Those who are underage are believed to be enrolled in Beauxbatons, and we thank them for accepting our refugees with open arms.

“In other news,” he took up the next story, “Dolores Umbridge was released from Azkaban this week. As many of you know, Umbridge was imprisoned last year for the crime of using the Cruciatus Curse on an underage girl in front of dozens of witnesses. Her release was done quietly, and Minister Thicknesse has declined to give any explanation for the move, but she has since been hired back by the Ministry. Officially, she has an unimportant desk job in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, but inside sources say that she will be organizing the so-called Magical Heritage Restoration Project behind the scenes. And you can probably guess how _that_ _’s_ going to go.”

“Right you are, Raccoon,” said Fred. “And now for our next segment: Potterwatch! Where we compile the latest news about the Chosen One, Harry Potter, and try to separate the truth from the rumours.”

“Now, Red Fox,” George asked, “the whole wizarding world has been gaga over Harry Potter since he was just a baby, and a lot of people are putting their hope in him to get rid of You-Know-Who for good. By Harry _is_ only seventeen. Are these expectations really justified?”

“Well, I’d say yes and no,” Fred answered. “There’s no way Harry beat You-Know-Who himself when he was just a baby, and he has said publicly that was his mother’s doing. But at the same time, Harry is clearly no ordinary seventeen-year-old. Who could forget the Triwizard Tournament, when a fourteen-year-old Harry defeated a dragon single-handed.”

“That is true, Red Fox, and I have it on good authority that he successfully cast the Patronus Charm when he was thirteen.”

“Well, that’s not all, Raccoon. Harry is also known for killing a gigantic basilisk with the Sword of Gryffindor when he was only twelve.”

Harry was glaring at the Twins from across the table, fuming that he couldn’t break into their conversation with his microphone turned off.

“So basically, any way you slice it, he is one powerful wizard, and you never want to count him out of a fight,” Fred concluded. “But at the same time, I want to remind our listeners that one man can’t win a war on his own. You-Know-Who sure isn’t trying to win on his own. He has a whole army! To everyone listening to us tonight, you need to be prepared to fight for your lives and your loved ones if the Death Eaters come to call. These are dangerous times, and we all have to keep each other safe in order to survive and eventually win.”

“Well said, Red Fox,” George agreed. “So where is Harry Potter now?”

“That _is_ the great mystery, isn’t it, Raccoon?” Fred said.

Harry rolled his eyes at the pair across the table. “Uh, guys, I’m right here,” he yelled.

“What’s this?” Fred gasped dramatically. “Ladies and gentlemen, Harry Potter is here with us in the studio!” He switched on Harry’s mic.

“You guys are dorks,” Harry said.

“Now, don’t worry about our safety—or more importantly, Harry’s safety,” George said. “We have carefully hidden our location so that no nefarious characters can find it. Welcome to the show, Harry.”

“Uh, thanks…What was your codename again?”

“ _Raccoon_. Honestly, _real_ professional operation we’ve got here.”

“But we do offer reliable news that every freedom fighter needs to know,” Fred countered. “Now the last public sighting of the Boy-Who-Lived was on June 28 when he assisted in saving a student returning home from Hogwarts from a Death Eater attack. Potter was seen cursing the infamous ex-Unspeakable, Augustus Rookwood, who had been in Azkaban for passing Ministry secrets to the enemy. Despite Rookwood’s superior knowledge of curses—”

“And seriously, you do _not_ want to mess with that guy. He is one scary son of a bitch.”

“—Harry came out unscathed. Harry, would you like to tell us about that?”

“I guess so,” Harry said. “It’s not like people don’t know about it. Hermione was at King’s Cross to escort a friend home from the Hogwarts Express. I was worried someone might come after them, so I went there and hid, and when I saw two Death Eaters attacking them, I cursed them from behind. Hermione did most of the fighting.”

“Yes, Hermione Granger, Undesirable No. 2 and arithmancer extraordinary,” George grinned at Hermione, who was sitting at the next table. “Granger was also seen at the fight at King’s Cross, where she fought Rookwood head-on and also killed the Death Eater Robert Jugson. Can you tell us how that went down?”

“Er, well, it was Hermione and…our friend against Rookwood and Jugson. Rookwood was an Unspeakable, so he knows lots of insane curses that I’ve never even heard of, and he reverse-engineered some of Hermione’s spells. They were both casting a bunch of different spells, and Jugson and our friend were mostly protecting themselves.”

“Well, Hermione Granger _is_ probably the only person who can match Rookwood spell for spell,” Fred chimed in. “I bet she’s already reverse-engineered some of Rookwood’s spells, too.”

In principle, the last bit should have been a secret, but the Death Eaters would have already known or guessed by now, so they agreed to allow the speculation. Even so, Harry said, “I won’t confirm or deny that. Anyway, Hermione collapsed a wall on Jugson, and I stunned Rookwood while he was distracted.”

“Well, it’s ugly business, we know, but in times like these, sometimes, it’s us or them,” Fred replied. “So what are you doing now to fight the Death Eaters?”

This was a question they had planned a very narrow and vague answer for to avoid tipping their hand—at least tipping it more than You-Know-Who already knew. “There are some tasks that Dumbledore assigned to me before he died. I’m working to complete those. It’s difficult, but I’m confident in getting them done.”

“And what would you say to our listeners, Harry,” said George, “who might be thinking that you are the Chosen One, and as such, you ought to be leading the charge against You-Know-Who?”

Harry glared automatically at the abstract listener who would think that. “I say it’s like you already said: I’m just one guy. There are a lot of good people out there with more skills and experience than me. Even if I am the Chosen One—and I don’t put much stock in prophecy— _everyone_ can do their part to help fight the war. Remember, You-Know-Who wouldn’t be half as scary without dozens of sycophants to run around killing people for him. Take them down, and he’s crippled.”

“Wise words, Harry,” Fred said. “Thanks for coming into the studio to talk to us.” A bit of misdirection to suggest he wasn’t staying in the same place they were.

“Sure, no problem,” Harry said, and they switched off his microphone.

“And that was Harry Potter giving us his exclusive interview,” Fred continued. “As you can hear, he’s alive and well and still working on Albus Dumbledore’s master plan to take down You-Know-Who once and for all.

“Now, as for Potter’s other close friends and associates—Ron Weasley, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin—it looks like they’ve all gone to ground. It’s almost impossible to find any of them, and Harry wouldn’t tell us anything, for their safety. Of course, that’s not surprising given how many times the Death Eaters have tried to kill them. Granger’s parents were killed at New Year’s last when a rogue Death Eater, believed to be Dolohov, set their house on fire with them inside. The Weasleys’ home was also destroyed shortly after the new regime took over.”

“Truly these are dangerous times, Red Fox,” George lamented. “But that’s why we encourage you to continue supporting us by listening to Radio Free Britain! And we have more than just gossip for you _here_. I’m pleased to introduce our next segment, ‘Knowledge Is Power’ with our regular correspondent, Lady Archimedes.”

Hermione’s microphone switched on, and she read from her script in the best BBC Radio voice she could manage: “Good evening, I’m Lady Archimedes, your arithmantic oracle for staying safe in a dangerous world.” She glared at Fred and George across the table. They had insisted she do that intro. “Tonight, I want to talk to you about security questions. As you’ll recall, when the present crisis was revealed to the public, the Ministry advised the populace to create security questions to prove the person you’re talking to is who they say they are using information only they know. Security questions are good, but they can be tricky. If more people know about your secrets that you think, if you’re sloppy about them, if you simply run out of good questions, or if a Death Eater catches one of you and pumps you for information, they can easily fail.”

“And what would you advise, Archimedes?” George spoke up.

“If it’s someone you see at all regularly, choose proper code phrases—passwords—and change them often—something that keeps changing so it can’t be compromised if the Death Eaters get it out of someone. Remember Hogwarts, if you were in Gryffindor or Slytherin, how the passwords for the dorms would change every two weeks, and that did a pretty good job of keeping intruders out.” Of course, she thought, for the average wizard, none of that would matter if the Imperius Curse were involved. That was detectable if you knew what to look for, but it would complicate matters too much to discuss it back to back with passwords, so another segment would be devoted to that.

“You think we’ve got some Slytherins listening in, Archimedes?” Fred cut in.

“It could happen,” she said. “Not all Slytherins are bad. And for that matter, not all dark wizards are Slytherins. It’s just the unfortunate truth that most of the people with strong pureblood prejudices wind up in Slytherin, and the Death Eaters have been using that house as a recruiting camp for thirty years, now.”

“Well, that much is true. Here’s hoping your advice foils a few Death Eater plots. Thank you, Lady Archimedes. Now, we’ve heard about Harry Potter’s friends, but it’s also our duty to keep you updated on the movements of the enemy.”

“Too true, Red Fox,” George agreed. “Aside from the public face through the Ministry, You-Know-Who, the Chief Death Eater, has been quiet lately, the latest open Death Eater operation being the murder of Xenophilius Lovegood on June 28. We’ve heard rumours of sightings, of course, but we can’t confirm them yet, and we at Radio Free Britain suspect that he is lying low until his Ministry puppets are fully in position. So we encourage you to continue listening to this broadcast in future weeks for the latest updates. Next week’s password will be ‘Sherbet Lemon’. Until then, keep each other safe. Keep faith. Good night, and good luck.”

“Good night and good luck” had been Hermione’s idea. It seemed appropriate to the situation. Fred and George turned off their equipment and relaxed after a job well done. “Good job, boys,” she said. The inaugural broadcast of Radio Free Britain had gone pretty well in her opinion. Now, if only the rest of the war could go so easily.

* * *

On the first of September, the “orphaned” Luna and Neville Longbottom went back to Hogwarts. Mr. Lovegood was still worried about letting Luna return, but with him “dead”, she wasn’t worth anything to the Death Eaters anymore, and she insisted on going back to help her fellow students (and she wanted to spend more time with Neville). Luna was to call Harry on her communication mirror as soon as possible to inform them of the situation there, but despite waiting up anxiously, she didn’t call that night. Hermione tried not to worry too much. It was likely there wasn’t time or breathing room after the Welcome Feast to call them, and while all of Neville’s roommates were trustworthy, Luna’s might not be.

In retrospect, maybe they should have given Luna the Map and Neville the mirror. Oh well, she was sure they’d sort it out for themselves.

On the second night, Luna did call. Harry answered on his mirror, and he, Hermione, and Mr. Lovegood crowded around to see Luna’s and Neville’s faces side by side.

“Hi, Dad!” Luna said cheerfully. “Hello, Harry and Hermione.”

“Hey, guys,” Neville said. “Glad you’re still alright. The radio broadcasts have been great.”

“Hello, Moonbeam,” Mr. Lovegood said. “How are you fairing in the enemy camp?”

“Things are alright for now,” she said. “Just a bit unpleasant.”

“What’s the situation at Hogwarts?” Harry asked. “We only know what they were planning at the start of summer. What did they end up doing?”

Neville blew out a breath. “Well, for starters, two Death Eaters stopped the train halfway and came on looking for you and Hermione, Harry.”

Mr. Lovegood gasped softly. “Did anything happen?”

“Nah. They searched the train and left when they couldn’t find them.” Neville smirked at Harry. “I told them to piss off because you wouldn’t be dumb enough to show up.”

“It was rather impressive,” Luna said happily.

It _was_ impressive how far Neville had come, Hermione thought, even if he was getting a bit reckless. “Do you know who they were?” she asked.

“Nah, I didn’t recognise them. The first one was tall and thin with a short grey beard and a ponytail…robes looked pretty fancy for a Death Eater. The second was shorter and bald with a pointed chin.”

Hermione turned: “Mr. Lovegood?”

“The bearded one is Selwyn,” he said. “Very respected old family. Interesting. He mostly avoided suspicion after the last war. I’m not sure about the bald one. Might have been Crabbe.”

Hermione made a note of that. Keeping track of Death Eater movements was critical—who was seen on what missions, who showed their faces in public (of course, that was most of them, now), and so on.

“What’s going on at Hogwarts?” asked Harry.

“Well, Snape’s Headmaster, like they said,” Neville told them. “He hasn’t been too bad himself so far, mostly keeps away from the students. They demoted Professor McGonagall from Deputy Head. She’s just Head of Gryffindor now. They brought in some goons we’re pretty sure are Death Eaters for some other classes. Defence Against the Dark Arts is just Dark Arts, now. The new teacher who’s also the new Deputy Head is a guy named Amycus Carrow.”

“Fell under suspicion after the last war, but was never formally charged,” Mr. Lovegood offered.

“Right. Officially, we’re still learning to fight and defend ourselves in that class, but I can tell it’s going to get nasty later.”

“Muggle studies is required for everyone now,” Luna said. “I’ve had it already. It mostly seems to be about how muggles are stupid, dirty animals who hate wizards.”

“Sounds like my relatives,” Harry said in a poor attempt at levity.

“Hmm. I’m not sure how they’re going to fill seven years of material with that,” Luna continued. “It might be more about the history of muggle persecution of magic.”

“That might almost be an improvement,” Neville grumbled. “Binns is the same as ever. You’d think with Death Eaters going through the school they’d finally get rid of him, but _no_. Anyway, the new Muggle Studies teacher is Alecto Carrow—Amycus’s sister…at least, I hope she’s his sister. If she’s his wife, it would be gag-worthy—although they’re both so ugly it wouldn’t shock me if it was both.”

Hermione felt a little nauseous at the thought. It was worse because they knew it _did_ happen sometimes. She had strong suspicion the same was true about You-Know-Who’s mother and uncle, and maybe even his grandparents. “What about Head of Slytherin?” she changed the subject. “One of the Carrows?”

“No, it’s your friend, Professor Vector, Hermione,” Luna piped up.

“ _Septima?_ How did that happen? They know how close she is to me.”

“Maybe Snape really is on our side?” Harry suggested.

“Maybe…”

“What about Potions, Neville?” he asked.

“Heh, you’re never gonna believe this one, mate. It’s Barty Crouch Jr.”

“What?” Harry and Hermione gasped.

“But he’s the one who resurrected You-Know-Who!” Harry yelled.

“He’s the one who cut Cedric’s arm off!” Hermione said.

“He’s a known Death Eater!” Harry added.

“I know, mate. I know,” Neville said. “I don’t know all the details. Something about how he wasn’t in Azkaban the whole time let them claim he was never supposed to be there in the first place. I know how dumb it sounds, but you know how much crap some people are swallowing these days.”

“Tell a lie big enough, and people will think it’s too crazy to be wrong” Hermione muttered. The same old story.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Neville agreed. “The crazy part is, he’s still unfair on us Gryffindors, like Snape was, but he’s actually a better teacher.”

“That doesn’t take much,” Hermione said. “Snape wasn’t actually trying.”

“True. Oh, and one other thing. I checked your Map, Hermione, and Crouch is keeping Bertha Jorkins prisoner in his apartments.”

Harry and Hermione stared at each other in shock. “Bertha Jorkins?” Harry said.

“She’s still alive?” Hermione said.

“Last I saw her, she was under the Imperius Curse, and You-Know-Who gave her to Crouch as a ‘reward’,” he explained. “He could’ve kept her that long.”

“Holy cricket,” she muttered. “She’s been trapped with them three years, then.”

“If we could get to her…” Harry started.

“Do you want us to do a rescue mission?” Neville asked.

“ _No._ Not yet, Nev,” Harry ordered. “Crouch is smart. If he doesn’t know about the Map, you’ll have an advantage, but if he’s as smart he looks, he’ll have wards and traps set up. Investigate carefully, but don’t move until you’re sure about what you’re up against.”

Neville shifted and seemed to become more businesslike. “Yes, _sir_ ,” he said. “We’re still working on how to have the D.A. meet with so many Death Eaters in the castle. We might have to do in-House meetings or something. We’ll let you know when we’ve connected with everybody.”

“Got it. Stay safe, Neville,” Harry said.

“Good night, Dad. Good night, Harry and Hermione,” Luna said.

“Good night, Moonbeam,” Mr. Lovegood answered, and Harry closed the conversation for the night.

* * *

The next issue of _Liberation_ ran with the headline, _Hogwarts Reopens Under Death Eater Teachers!_ The story carefully detailed the Death Eater credentials of Snape (keeping to the deception that he was loyal to You-Know-Who) and the three new teachers, along with the negative changes to the curriculum. And the Death Eaters would probably wonder how they got some of that information. Good.

Below the fold, there was another story: _Muggle Princess Dies in Paris! Were Death Eaters Involved?_ Hermione had been shocked to learn of the death of Diana, Princess of Wales in a car crash in Paris at the end of August and was immediately suspicious. She wasn’t sure if she was on the right track, especially as it happened out of the country, but the Royal Family very likely knew about magic, possibly including Diana, and talks with the French Ministry could be very important to the war effort. The official story of drunk driving and fleeing from paparazzi was plausible, but could just as easily have been set up, and she had to wonder if Death Eaters were somehow behind it.

Meanwhile, the Order’s work continued. For herself, in addition to her spellcrafting, Hermione found herself having to review the messages that she had received through the rings (and in person).

“I can’t stand seeing Umbridge going around and messing with muggle-borns like that. I want to _do_ something about it.” That was Harry. Hermione agreed, but wanted to be a bit more cautious about how to go about it.

_PROSPECTS FOR BREAKING UP MBRC? —HJG_

 

That was her message up the chain to Kingsley, who could coordinate the whole Order through his cell. They both knew MBRC stood for Muggle-Born Registration Commission, even though that wasn’t its official or maybe even its unofficial name. Kingsley’s reply soon came back:

 

_INVESTIG MOM SECURTY—WILL KEEP POSTED_

 

The message came to the whole cell, but that wasn’t a concern. Operation security was never assumed within a cell. He was looking into it, presumably figuring out how they might be able to pull it off. That wasn’t his only message either. She and Kingsley didn’t have a lot to discuss since she had few status reports to give at the factory, but since she _was_ basically the head of the resistance’s media, so he passed along important stories to her:

 

_CRESSWELL ARRSTD—HEAD OF GOBLN OFFICE_

 

That was a bit trickier to parse. She had to ask the Weasleys to get the relevant background to understand that Dirk Cresswell was the head of the Goblin Liaison Office, possibly the Ministry’s most important diplomatic post and a very well-respected wizard, and he had apparently been arrested. She then passed the message down to the Creevey Brothers:

 

_INVESTIGATE CRESSWELL ARREST_

 

The Creeveys had come up with a packet of information at their dead drop detailing the incident. Cresswell was a muggle-born who was arrested for faking his family tree to appear as a half-blood. He was currently being held at the Ministry. A man named Albert Runcorn had found him out and brought him in. Runcorn’s exact position in the Ministry was unclear, but he seemed to be Umbridge’s chief enforcer—the one who would hunt down muggle-borns and bring them in for “investigation”—sort of a head of the secret police. Radio Free Britain broke the full story on its next broadcast, and _Liberation_ circulated with attached photos. The story worked well, if not for Cresswell himself.

However, Hermione was completely shocked by the next message she got from the Creeveys:

_RITA SKEETER WANTS 2 TALK 2 U—MEET? —CC_


	60. Seventh Year, Autumn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is cleverly disguised as Robert Galbraith. Oh, wait—wrong franchise.
> 
> Credit to LightOtter for reminding me that I’d left Rita’s thread dangling.

Hermione took one look at Colin and Dennis Creevey and smacked her forehead. “Boys, this isn’t a movie,” she scolded. “Wearing trench coats and sunglasses is the opposite of inconspicuous.”

“Relax,” Dennis piped up. “We’re in a muggle area, and we had to do this at least once.”

“Besides, you’re not exactly incognito. Anyway, here she is,” Colin said. He stepped aside to reveal their visitor.

Hermione gave Rita Skeeter a knowing look, then winked at Colin. “Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine,” she said.

“Excuse me, Miss Granger,” she said. “You agreed to this meeting.”

Hermione rolled her eyes: “Muggle joke. Just ignore that.” Hermione had, of course, come to their meeting place an hour ago and surveyed the area, just in case of foul play—a seedy little pub in London miles away from the wizarding quarter where she could safely set up spells to keep the staff and patrons from overhearing anything.

As it was, if she hadn’t known whom she was entertaining today, she might not have even recognised Rita Skeeter. The woman was doing better than she had been when Hermione had barred her from writing, but she had clearly gone for a less conspicuous look, unlike the Creeveys. Gone were her gaudy, over-long painted nails and starched curls. She’d straightened her hair and swapped her jewelled glasses for tortoiseshell, and her bright-coloured robes had been replaced with a surprisingly competent muggle outfit.

Hermione, of course, had gone even further. She’d not only straightened her hair, but charmed it black, her eyes blue, shaved her heavy eyebrows down pencil-thin, and wore black lipstick to complement an all-black outfit. Now _that_ was a proper disguise.

“So, Ms. Skeeter,” she said. “We’re both here. What do you want?”

“I heard the broadcast on the wireless, Miss Granger,” Skeeter said. Of course she did. She was a master of infiltration. “I recognised your voice. I want to help.”

Hermione raised an eyebrow at her. “Help?” she demanded. “Why would you want to help us?”

Skeeter sat across from her and stared her down. “Human rights violations,” she said. “ _You_ _’re_ the one who taught me those words. I had a lot of time on my hands for that year you kept me out of the press. I did some reading.”

 _Human rights violations?_ Hermione thought. After everything that had happened, she’d forgotten that she’d even mentioned those words to Skeeter. “Really?” she asked. “I assumed you spent that time digging up dirt on Dumbledore.”

“Well, I had plenty of time for that, too,” she admitted. “Not-writing leaves you with a lot of time on your hands.”

“And why should I trust you after the hack job you did on him?”

“Excuse me,” she said, indignant. “I have always been dedicated to disseminating the truth no matter who it hurts.”

“Don’t give me that crap, Skeeter,” Hermione snapped. “Your articles have been filled with half-truths, lies of omission, lack of context, and slanderous implications for as long as I’ve been reading them. You may stop just short of a direct lie, but you’ve always only been interested in your readership, not _actual_ journalism.

Skeeter leaned forward and glared at her. “Alright, then, Granger,” she said. “You want to play this game? I’ll play. This is how this business _works_ , don’t you know? And don’t think I didn’t do my homework, little girl. Dumbledore made not have done the worst of what I implied, but he absolutely wasn’t as squeaky clean as everyone thinks.”

Hermione shook her head: “Believe me, I know that as well as anyone. I worked with him closely in the last months of his life. But implying that he murdered his own sister? That he was in cahoots with Grindelwald the entire time?”

“I have solid evidence—”

“There were dozens of witnesses to their famous duel, and you know it! But that wasn’t the worst. No, _your_ greatest mistake was dropping this bombshell in the middle of a war. You can be as dedicated to the truth as you want, but the effect on morale of these allegations could be devastating. These supposed secrets? They aren’t _important_ , and they aren’t _necessary_. Maybe later, but not now, and society wouldn’t have suffered for letting them go until after the war.”

“And you would have stopped me from publishing them if you had the chance?” Skeeter demanded.

“No. I’m dedicated to a free press,” Hermione conceded. “Your own ethics should have—if you had any.”

Colin and Dennis were silent, their heads bobbing back and forth as the two women went at it. Colin looked briefly concerned at Skeeter’s implication, but he relaxed when Hermione denied it.

“Don’t push it, Granger,” Skeeter said. “I _do_ want to help you.”

“Why? What’s in it for you?” she demanded.

“Exactly what I said,” she said smugly. “Human rights violations. It’s a concept wizards don’t think about too much—not that we ignore them, but we don’t have a term for it, either. See, I read up on the muggle press while I was researching. and half the biggest stories of the past hundred years have been about human rights violations, or connected with them. You actually show people the death and suffering up close, and they _respond_ to that. You get the help you need, and I get those readers I love so much. This will be the story of my career.”

 _Of course it would_ , Hermione grumbled to herself. “Ah,” she said. “So you’re the same exploitative, opportunistic gossip-monger you’ve always been, shamelessly profiting of the pain of others.”

“I regret nothing,” Skeeter said.

“You will if you screw this up,” Hermione said as threateningly as she could. “I _am_ interested in your help, as it happens. But I need to make completely sure I can rely on you. So three questions: are you willing to use your animagus form to gather intelligence and pass on anything important to my associates?” She motioned to Colin and Dennis.

“Within reason, yes,” she said. “That’s how I always do it.”

“And you’ll keep that information a secret if I or others in the resistance tell you to keep it secret?”

“I’m not a fool, Granger. I wouldn’t have lasted this long if I didn’t know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Good,” Hermione said. “ _And_ are you willing to stick to the _actual_ truth on this story? None of your usual spin?”

Skeeter frowned. “Why would I want to do that?”

Hermione shot her such a fierce glare that the woman flinched. “Because I say so,” she snarled. “There’s a very good reason, though. If you read up enough on human rights to come and offer me help, you _must_ have heard about the Holocaust.”

“Of course, Granger. That’s the one thing the muggles make the most noise about.”

“Good. Have you heard of Holocaust denial, then?”

“Holocaust _denial?_ Not in so many words. That means people say…?”

“Basically, denying that the Holocaust ever happened, yes.”

“What?” Rita said, aghast. “That’s ridiculous! All the photos and documents they had? Even I wouldn’t be that crazy!”

“Well, that’s one mark in your favour,” Hermione quipped.

“Who would do such a ridiculous thing?” she demanded. “What profit is there in that?

Hermione leaned back and crossed her arms in satisfaction. She had her now. “People who have an ideological opposition to Jews—rank nonsense on the level of the worst of pureblood prejudices—or to the State of Israel—less clear-cut, politically, but still an abominable way to go about it. People who liked Hitler’s other ideas and don’t want him painted as absolute evil, or true believers who _know_ they’re lying, but do it anyway for political gain. The important thing is, when they were originally writing the stories, they _knew_ people would try to deny it and took steps to prevent that.”

“They did? Why was that?”

“Because that wasn’t the first time it had happened,” Hermione said, and the Creeveys nodded along grimly. “The Armenian Genocide in Turkey thirty years earlier was a very similar program of mass murder, and that one was successfully covered for in the political sphere, in many ways. To this day, muggle Turkey and its allies refuse to acknowledge that it happened. So when General Eisenhower liberated the concentration camps, he ordered his troops and the press to document it thoroughly—to get down _everything_ they could and make it publicly known so that the record would remain unassailable long after everyone involved had died, and no one could ever deny it happened without looking like a fool. Even so, people still try.

“We can win this war, but if we don’t change people’s hearts and minds, we’re only going to have to fight it again in another generation. If we give the Death Eaters’ supporters the opening to deny the oppression and murder of muggle-borns being carried out right now by this Ministry, they’ll take it, and we’ll be right back where we started. And as for you personally, you don’t want the story of your career to be torn apart by those people worse than any book about Dumbledore could be. They’ll discredit it, and they’ll discredit you—unless we head them off.

“So here’s the deal, Ms. Skeeter. If you’re going to report on this, you’re going to have to do it honestly—none of your usual exaggerations, distortions, or implications, on one side or the other. Document _everything_ accurately and thoroughly. Make your truth above reproach so that no one can doubt it. If I believe at any point that you cannot do this, I’ll replace you with someone who can. With a flyswatter.”

Skeeter paled. She could tell she’d got in over her head with this one. But she wasn’t one to back down—not from a story this big, and she was no stranger to threats. “You’ve changed, Granger,” she said.

“Maybe,” Hermione said.

“You have. You were bloody scary before, sure, but casual murder wasn’t in your repertoire when last we met.”

Hermione didn’t rise to the bait. She didn’t intend to literally use a flyswatter, and Skeeter knew it, but it got the point across. “I’m doing what I need to to keep myself and the people I care about alive,” she said. “I’ve already killed one Death Eater in pursuit of that, and I’m not afraid to defend myself from the real monsters again. Now, you know where I stand. The deal’s on the table. Are you still interested?”

Skeeter got a greedy look in her eye. “You think I’m going to pass this up Granger?” she asked. “Fine, I’ll give you your stories. And I’ll make sure they’re all properly sourced and documented. Even if you don’t believe anything else, I’m not stupid enough to cross my employer.”

“Good,” Hermione said, and she smiled and shook Skeeter’s hand. She only felt a little bit like she needed to wash it afterwards. “The Creeveys will be your point of contact. Pass your stories and documents along to them, and we’ll make sure they get to the people in charge of _Liberation_.”

“Meaning you?” she said.

“ _That_ is above your pay grade, Ms. Skeeter. And mine,” she lied. “Even I don’t know most of the secrets of what we’re doing. Safer that way. Now, let’s talk price.”

* * *

Hermione worked on assembling molecules—visualising one atom linking to the next to the next in a geometrical lattice. She was immensely grateful that she’d figured out how to make gemstones with magic. It was much more than funding the Twins’ shop, now. This was one of their primary methods to fund the war effort with everyone in hiding, especially with Rita Skeeter’s exorbitant rates.

Today, however, she wasn’t making jewelry. Hermione still hadn’t replaced her buckler that had been shattered in her last fight. She needed a new one if she wanted to be able to block the Killing Curse in an emergency again. And this time, she’d made some improvements.

Her original buckler had been a simple disk twelve inches in diameter (or thirty centimetres, rather) and eight millimeters thick. Making it thicker wouldn’t help much against a curse that powerful, so there was nothing to be gained there, but she _could_ make it more compact instead. For the new version, she made five wedges of her nanotube material, which she assembled into a spring-loaded mechanism that would strap onto her arm that could unfold them into a fan shape ten inches wide and seventeen inches high with a flick her wrist. Folded, it was like having a chunk of two-by-four attached to her sleeve, but it still allowed a lot more freedom of movement than her old one, and it weighed the same. Unfolded, it offered better coverage of her face and chest, and with the wedges, it might be able to take more hits.

The other improvement she made to her gear was not in direct response to any incident so far, but she was hoping to prevent one in the future by reinforcing the one part of her kit that was undeniably a weak point: her wands. Wands were magically tougher than ordinary sticks, but they were still frighteningly easy to snap over one’s knee, or to break in a bad fall, let alone a direct curse. She had broken Ron’s old wand by accident when Riddle’s spirit stole it in the Chamber of Secrets. Even with two of them plus a homemade backup, breaking one of her wands would put her at a severe disadvantage.

The solution, of course, was again carbon nanotubes. When you had a material that strong and light that could do everything that steel, aluminium, and Kevlar could, and more, why would you ever use anything else? She crafted a very fine mesh of nanotube wires and bonded it to the wood, stopping about an inch from the tip so as not to interfere with the magic. With the strength of the material, it was equivalent to wrapping the wand completely with steel wire. She tested it on low-quality homemade wands first, and she found that it didn’t create any increased resistance to spellcasting, nor accelerated wear and tear, but it made them that much harder to break.

With her wands thus reinforced, Hermione judged she was as ready as she could be for the next fight. And that fight might come sooner rather than later, since Kingsley had responded to Harry’s request and wanted to meet to discuss the situation at the Ministry—and if Harry got his way, to plan their first major offensive action.

* * *

Unlike Rita Skeeter, Kingsley was read into their secret and was thus able to visit the group at the factory. When he arrived, it occurred to Hermione that the Fidelius Charm was also a very nice shortcut to be sure he was who he said he was. One less thing to worry about. He produced a folder of documents as he sat with Harry, Hermione, George, and Fred in what had once been the break room. Mr. Lovegood was politely asked to sit this one out. He wouldn’t be involved in any fighting, and they wouldn’t want media involvement until after the fact.

“Hello, Harry,” Kingsley said in his deep voice. “I’m glad to see you all are doing well. As you requested, I’ve had our…agents survey the conditions inside the Ministry.” Hermione was pleased that, as an Auror, he easily took to proper information security. “I’ve already talked our options over with Mad-Eye, but before we start, I want to know what _you_ want to do.”

“I want to help the muggle-borns,” Harry said. “I know if the Ministry’s doing what it planned, it’s rounding them up and shipping them to some camp somewhere. I want to stop them and rescue the muggle-borns who are in there—show them they can’t get away with that.”

Kingsley nodded gravely. “And what do you rest of you think?” he asked the table.

“Well, Harry’s our strategist, so this is sort of his purview, but I stand with him,” Hermione said. “I don’t want to let this persecution stand when we can do something about it.”

“Same here,” George spoke up.

“Can’t let them walk all over people,” Fred agreed.

“Very well,” Kingsley said. “Here is the current situation as we understand it.” He laid out the first parchments in his dossier. “Officially, the Ministry is merely investigating the heritage of muggle-borns out of historical interest. However, if no magical heritage is found, which is almost always the case, they are quietly disappeared to a secret trial for supposedly coming by magic by nefarious means. I’m sorry to say Dolores Umbridge is presiding.”

Hermione scowled: “So exactly what they were planning, but in secret.”

“I’m afraid so, Hermione, with one exception. The need for secrecy has derailed the puppet regime’s plans to build the Mudblood Relocation Camp. Most of those convicted are simply being released with loss of wand privileges.”

Hermione’s eyes widened, and all four heads turned to her. “And I can teach people how to make disposable wands,” she said.

Kingsley frowned: “That information has never been widely disseminated,” he said. “I’m not forbidding it—merely warning that it could make things messier after the war. And if the Death Eaters start to catch on, they will take more drastic action.”

Her face fell: “Like shaving the prisoners’ heads…or just killing them…I’ll have to think it over, but I suspect the benefits still outweigh the costs. What else?”

“Muggle-borns who show particular dissident tendencies are not released,” he continued. “Depending on the severity and how cooperative they are, the penalty ranges from confinement inside the Ministry to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

There was a bang and a shower of sparks as Hermione’s teacup shattered in her hand in a burst of magic.

“Sorry,” she muttered and cleaned it up with a wave of her wand. She must be more on edge than she thought.

“My apologies if this is a sensitive subject,” Kingsley said.

“I’ll be fine,” she said.

Harry spoke up again: “So what are our prospects for shutting them down and rescuing the muggle-borns?”

“Those are two separate things, Harry,” the Auror answered. He showed them three moving photographs from the dossier. One Hermione recognised. The others she didn’t. “To the best of our knowledge, these are the three main perpetrators,” he said. “Umbridge, the organiser. Albert Runcorn, the chief headhunter. And Corban Yaxley, who we believe is the Death Eater puppet-master. Best case scenario: we capture or kill all three of them, and the puppet regime is crippled. We might even buy a window long enough to take back control, but that’s unlikely. Yaxley will be almost impossible to hit. He’s installed himself as the Director of the DMLE, and he’s never unguarded. I’m not sure about Umbridge either. Runcorn should be easier, though.”

“I want to take down Umbridge,” Hermione growled. “If there’s a way we can…”

“There are definitely ways. Freeing the prisoners is likely to take us close to her. That’s where we’ll want to start.” Kingley showed them some rough floor plans of the Ministry. “The trials are being held in Courtroom Ten—at the very bottom, below even the Department of Mysteries. Both Mad-Eye and I agree that a frontal assault is out of the question. The whole of the Ministry’s security lies between the entrances and that courtroom, and the courtroom itself is guarded by what our agents called an ‘irresponsible’ number of dementors.”

Harry and Hermione looked at each other and nodded. The pair of them were two of the best Patronus casters in the entire Order. If they were going to do this, the two of them wouldn’t be able to sit it out.

“We’ll have to infiltrate the Ministry in secret to have a chance,” Kingsley continued. “All the entrances are guarded, and identities are checked. The security is still loose enough that a disguise and credentials should be enough to get through it—I’m sure the Death Eaters don’t like that, but it’s a public building, after all—but it will still be very dangerous.”

“What about your spies?” asked Fred.

“No. We can’t risk exposing them. The infiltration team will have to be convincingly disguised as Ministry workers. We have a small supply of Polyjuice Potion for that purpose. Have you used it before?”

“No, but I’m familiar with the concept,” Hermione said, and then, for Harry’s benefit, “It lets you take the appearance of someone else. Actually, George, Fred, see if there’s any chance you could get the ingredients. We should see if we can brew our own in case of emergency.”

“Yes, ma’am,” George said, saluting. She rolled her eyes.

“I take it you two are interested in the infiltration mission?” Kingsley said. “You can both cast the Patronus Charm?”

“I practice it every night,” Hermione said. _When I sleep properly_ , she added mentally.

“And we’re in if these two are going,” George said quickly.

“Yeah. They’ll need extra wands to help them,” Fred agreed. “Especially if they’re busy with Patronuses.”

“It would be dangerous sending either of you two, given your value to the Order,” Kingsley said, eyeing Harry and Hermione. “But I have to admit your skills would be vital to this mission. I can give you preliminary approval as the infiltration team, pending a full planning session with Mad-Eye. Your priority would be to sneak into Courtroom Ten and the holding cells, disrupt the trials, and free the prisoners there. Take down any of our three targets if you have the opportunity to so it safely.”

“Makes sense,” Harry nodded, though he didn’t look too happy about possibly letting Umbridge go. Hermione privately agreed.

“The hard part will be getting out of the Ministry once you free the prisoners. You should be able to get part of the way out before trouble starts if you take the security by surprise, but it won’t get you all the way out. Therefore, a team of veterans who are publicly known to be Order members will be on standby to serve as a distraction or an extraction team to make a pathway for you.”

Hermione gave a small smile. Kingsley had clearly thought this through. It was starting to sound like a plausible plan. “Who are we looking at impersonating?” she asked.

“That will take some more detailed planning to get a handle on people’s movements,” he said. “There are a few targets we’re particularly considering. Mafalda Hopkirk, for example—Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, but our agents tell me Umbridge tapped her to be Court Scribe. If we’re lucky, Runcorn himself. He doesn’t have twenty-four-hour security, like the other two. Lesser subordinates. Maintenance wizards. There are options.”

“No one ever notices the maintenance folks,” Fred observed.

“It’s a well-known fact. Like house elves—no offence, Hermione,” George added.

“This is good,” Harry agreed, looking over the floor plans. “This could work. I say we set up a meeting with Moody and whoever else is involved and hammer out the details. If we’re going to do this, we should do it soon.”

“I’m in,” Fred said at once.

Harry looked at Hermione, but she just said, “You’re the strategist in this group, Harry. I’ll defer to you unless you’re being blatantly foolish.”

“I think we’re in, Kingsley,” George agreed.

The Auror nodded once more. “Very well. I’ll talk to Mad-Eye and make the arrangements.”


	61. Chapter 61

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is the master, even though she totally could have come up with a better title than The Crimes of Grindelwald.

Hermione stood silently and disillusioned in the grimy back lots around the Ministry of Magic and pondered how frighteningly easy it was to kidnap someone in the magical world. Of course, anyone could lie in wait for someone, but when you could be attacked from behind by an invisible assailant, and when you Apparated into a place without knowing what was waiting for you there, you would have to have _constant vigilance_ to avoid an attack like that. She wondered if there was a way to passively protect herself from something like that, but so far, all that came to mind was, _Don_ _’t be bloody predictable!_

Sufficiently important people like the Minister and Dolores Umbridge had a security detail to worry about that kind of thing, but the average witch or wizard on the street didn’t, and even in these times, if they felt safe to step out their door at all, they didn’t really have to worry about an ambush attack, which was something Hermione was thankful for in this situation as she waited for her quarry to appear.

 _First target: Mafalda Hopkirk,_ she thought. _Officially, Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, off-the-books Court Scribe for the Magical Heritage Restoration Project. Apparates every morning in back of the theatre at eight thirty-five, give or take five minutes._

At eight thirty-seven, a short witch with flyaway grey hair appeared in front of her. Even from the back, Hermione could tell she was the one she was looking for. A silent Stunning Hex took her down before she knew there was anyone there. All too easy.

George approached, only recognisable from the sound of his footsteps and a shimmer in the air, but Hermione saw Hopkirk’s feet move and knew that he was helping her pick her up. The two of them carried her into the theatre and set her down on the floor. Hermione cancelled the Disillusionment Charms and plucked a few hairs from Hopkirk’s head to add to the Polyjuice Potion. George began rummaging through her pockets.

According to their contacts in the Ministry, security was tighter now. You had to have an ID badge and special tokens to get in. Not enough in a world where things like Polyjuice Potion and Legilimency existed, but enough that simply walking in like the Death Eaters had done with her and Harry a year and a half ago wouldn’t be possible anymore.

“Here’s her ID,” George said once he found it. “And you’d better take these, too.” He handed her the card and the tokens. “I’ll go watch for my guy while you take the potion. _Non Illudere._ _”_ He Disillusioned himself again and crept out the door.

Hermione eyed the Polyjuice Potion. It had changed from a muddy brown to a pleasant heliotrope colour, but it still had a sulfurous odour like rotten vegetables and a thick, sludgy texture. She decided not to take any chances and held her nose as she drank it, and she _still_ barely managed to choke it down. Not only was the Polyjuice sludgy, but it was _gritty_ , not to mention tasting like overcooked cabbage. She retched as she had a flashback to a particularly foul-tasting medicine she’d been forced to take as a little girl. Her mum had been tearing her hair out because it was so bad the taste actually made her vomit. She only got her to keep it down by mixing it with applesauce.

She still didn’t like applesauce.

She managed not to vomit up the Polyjuice, but that was even worse, if it were possible, because as soon as she drank it, she felt like there were snakes crawling through her gut as it rearranged itself. A sensation of heartburn started and then spread itself out through her torso and limbs, then crept up her face. She was so hot she felt like her skin was boiling, and for a moment, she worried that the potion had been sabotaged. She collapsed to her hands and knees like some magical Dr. Jekyll, except she felt her clothes growing looser rather than tighter. Hopkirk was shorter than she was. Her hair grew lighter and limp and her hands thin and frail, at least compared with what she used to.

Suddenly, the writhing sensation under her skin stopped. The transformation was finished. Hermione was flat on the floor, face-down. She tried to push herself to her feet.

“Gah!” she gasped with pain. In all their planning, she’d never considered that Malfalda Hopkirk was over forty years _older_ than she was. All the little aches and pains that she normally didn’t even notice were magnified: sore back, sore knees, slightly weak vision. And Hopkirk wasn’t even that old! Only late middle-aged. True, Hermione felt fine enough once she got used to this new body, but she hadn’t been expecting that. She made a mental note to remind herself to stay in shape at that age. Hopkirk didn’t seem to be making much effort.

“Ugh. Hermione, can you help me with this?” George grunted. He was dragging their second victim in the door.

 _Philip Cornfoot, Ministry cafeteria worker. Has access to the prisoners to distribute meals._ Hermione was pretty sure he had a son in their year at Hogwarts. Not important now. She hurried to help George, almost tripping over robes that were now several inches too long.

Cornfoot was shorter than George, but also fatter. His robes wouldn’t fit at all with the transformation. They’d have to strip all of the workers to their underwear to acquire a convincing disguise anyway. Hermione searched the man’s pockets for appropriate ID while George dealt with the Polyjuice Potion, retching and cursing through the transformation.

A few minutes later, they both stood as properly-dressed Ministry workers. Hopkirk and Cornfoot were both fed a mild Sleeping Draught that would keep them out for a few hours. The Order of the Phoenix would be long gone by then. Now, they needed their other two players.

“Psst. George? Hermione? Are you in here?” a familiar voice called. Fred entered the theatre, levitating a third man—younger and thinner, looking more like a brown-haired Percy than anything else.

 _Aloysius Quill, Ministry file clerk. Has access to the trial records for the proceedings that have already been concluded._ Ironically, none of the four targets they’d selected were actual maintenance workers, but low-level staffers were a better choice in this situation.

“Yes, we’re here,” Hermione whispered. “Come in, and stay out of sight.”

Fred took the Polyjuice quickly and handled it surprisingly well. He looked the pair of them up and down. “I see I’m still the handsome twin,” he said. Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Everyone ready?” a deep voice called, and an imposing figure stepped through the door. Harry—or the man she hoped was Harry—was over six feet tall and powerfully built with curly black hair and a beard. _Albert Runcorn. Officially, Archivist for the Magical Heritage Restoration Project. Unofficially the man who gets his hands dirty so Umbridge doesn_ _’t have to. Pureblood, Death Eater sympathiser, and close associate of the Nott and Zabini Families._ He also had a child in their year: a Slytherin, naturally.

Hermione raised her wands to the man, and George and Fred had theirs at the ready. He froze, but looked only momentarily surprised. He showed empty hands and said, “It’s me. Harry.”

“Password?” Hermione hissed.

“Bletchley Park.”

Hermione lowered her wand. “You got Runcorn, then?” she said.

“Yeah,” Harry answered. “He was alone, like K—the Boss said.”

“Probably thought he looked too scary to take on,” Fred suggested.

“I’m surprised a _wizard_ would make that mistake,” Hermione muttered. “Where’s the real Runcorn?”

“At the dummy safehouse, like we agreed.” The Order had many real safehouses plus a few that were “fakes” of a sort to throw the enemy off. “I only gave him a Sleeping Draught, like you wanted, but he’s tied up in a locked room, and I took his wand, so he won’t be going anywhere for the next few hours.”

“Good. We’ll deal with him after the op,” she agreed.

“Right. You’re all ready?”

Hermione nodded, and George said, “Yep,” but then he grunted. “Ugh, not used to being fat. Let’s get this over with.”

“Yeah. We’d better figure fifty minutes on the Polyjuice so we’ll have to move fast,” Harry agreed. “Hermione, message Kingsley on your ring. Tell him we’re moving in.”

“Right,” she said. She tapped out the message on the upstream side of her Order Ring to alert Kingsley and the others, and she and the Twins followed Harry to the Ministry entrance. “Well, here we go,” she said. “Into the belly of the beast.” A thought struck her, and she added, “You know, for a school whose motto was, ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon,’ we sure seem to do an awful lot of that.”

“Yeah, story of my life,” Harry muttered.

Hermione walked clumsily, not used to her smaller, less steady body. She’d never had the feeling of being uncomfortable in her own skin before—not like this. She felt like her flesh was hanging on her bones wrong, except the bones were wrong, too. Malfalda Hopkirk’s teeth were crooked, and she _knew_ it was going to nag her the whole time. Her shoulders were just a tad hunched, too. She could only hope she wasn’t drawing too much attention to herself.

Apparition directly into the Atrium (or anywhere in the building) had been blocked—probably the most sensible of the new security measures—and the poorly-policed Visitors’ Entrance was also closed. The only way in or out now, barring emergencies, was a set of public toilets that had been rerouted to the Floos in the Atrium, according to Kingsley’s sources.

They each took a token, and Hermione proceeded to the _LADIES_ room. There was large crowd of witches filing into the toilets. It was an interesting arrangement—quite dirty and unpleasant, but serviceable. Any muggle who wandered in would be naturally suspicious about the number of people who were walking in without walking out, but they wouldn’t be able to open any of the cubicles without a token. She waved shyly to the women who said hello and resolved to come down with a sudden case of laryngitis if any of them insisted she talk to them, but people in these circumstances weren’t prone to talk to each other unnecessarily.

Hermione opened her cubicle and stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She was glad now for the intel Kingsley had given them, since she thought she might have been lost without it. She stepped up and into the toilet. Fortunately, despite appearances, it was both dry and had a flat bottom. All she had to do was pull a chain, and she was flushed down to a corresponding fireplace in the Ministry Atrium—complete with appropriate sound effects. Ew.

She stumbled as she emerged, still unsteady on her feet, but managed to right herself. Harry, George, and Fred emerged a few Floos down, but she barely noticed. Her attention was preoccupied by the huge statue now dominating the Atrium. There had been a golden fountain here before, until Dumbledore and Voldemort had held their duel and destroyed it. Now, there was a statue of black stone—a statue of a witch and wizard holding their wands high as if gazing toward some bright future. But under their feet, they stood on a tall pedestal of white marble, but it was broken off at the base and its weight was held up by many smaller human bodies bent under the load beneath it. At the base, a motto was inscribed in foot-high letters:

 

_MAGIC IS MIGHT_

 

She stared at it far longer than she should have.

The boys came up by her side. “Psst, Hermione,” George whispered, making her jump as she saw the three men standing near to her. “This is new.”

“It’s horrible,” she muttered softly.

“Are those—?” Harry started, looking at the bent figures.

“Muggles,” she said. She had a bad taste in her mouth. “In their…rightful place.”

The statue was stark and monumental and disgusting, and she was quite certain she’d once seen a photo of a nearly identical statue in Russia of a man and a woman holding up the hammer and sickle. With all the Soviet-style propaganda floating around, she wondered if it was intentional.

“Let’s go,” Harry muttered. “You all know the plan. Spread out.”

Hermione nodded and turned her eyes away from the abomination. They each had their own roles to play here, hammered in during their planning session. George would go to the cafeteria and give them a few minutes’ head start before running over to the holding cells and releasing the prisoners. Fred would grab all the files he could from the records room. Harry would go to Runcorn’s office and clean out all his files on his hunt for muggle-borns. (They’d both brought magically-expanded briefcases for the purpose.) And Hermione…

“Hem hem.”

A chill went through her. She turned and saw a squat, toad-like witch dressed all in girlish pink staring up at her. “Good, there you are, Mafalda,” Dolores Umbridge said in her sickly-sweet voice. “We want to get started on time, don’t we? Come along.” She snapped her fingers for her to follow and proceeded towards the lifts.

“Y-yes, Madam Umbridge,” she said.

Hermione’s job was to keep Umbridge busy until Harry had time to circle around to the courtroom and help disrupt the trials. Their goals were threefold there: free any prisoners in the courtroom, take down Umbridge herself if they could, and most importantly, provide a distraction for the prisoners to escape.

Hermione engaged with Umbridge as little as possible as they rode the lift down to the courtrooms. Just the sight of that woman filled her with mingled anger, fear, and a little bit of nausea. How had the people swallowed pardoning a woman who had used the Cruciatus Curse on a child? (The same way they swallowed everything else about this mad regime, of course: propaganda.)

They reached the lowest level and stepped out, heading down to the courtrooms. Hermione still felt unsteady and made her way gingerly down the stairs, hoping she was being inconspicuous. Typically, Umbridge, eagle-eyed as ever, noticed. “Is something wrong, Mafalda?” she asked.

“I—just turned my ankle coming in, ma’am,” Hermione said. Umbridge sniffed minutely and didn’t say anything, but Hermione felt her heart start racing and her blood start to run cold all the same. But she quickly placed this feeling for what it truly was.

_Dementors._

It had been over three years since Hermione had been directly confronted with a dementor. She was stronger now than she was then, and she had practised her Patronus Charm almost every night since the night she had nearly been Kissed, but she’d seen more, too. The darkness in her memories was darker, and she could hear the screams echoing in her head. She had to fight the urge to whip out her wand and cast the Patronus herself, which would have given her away immediately. She also prayed Umbridge wouldn’t ask her to cast one. This was one of the biggest weak points in their plan. Her otter would give her away. She _thought_ she could cast a non-corporeal version, but it wasn’t something she normally practised.

Fortunately, Umbridge managed that herself. She pulled out her wand and cast, _“Expecto Patronum.”_ A silvery light appeared and formed itself into the shape of a cat.

 _I can_ _’t believe that foul woman can cast a Patronus_ , Hermione thought. Umbridge hadn’t been that cheerful—that _genuinely_ cheerful, anyway—nor that competent when she was a teacher. She almost couldn’t believe it was a cat, either, but here, at least, some of the ugliness within revealed itself. Umbridge’s Patronus wasn’t a cute kitten like she decorated her walls with. It was a scraggly, mean-looking alley cat.

There was no pretence here of a mere academic investigation, or even humane treatment. There were a _dozen_ dementors guarding a row of a dozen prisoners in the hall, most of whom looked utterly broken, hiding their faces in their hands. Hermione felt the cold settle into her bones and, as much as it galled her, huddled as close as she dared to Umbridge and her Patronus as she held the monsters at bay. The prisoners peered up at them in fear. One of them raised a blond head, and Hermione recognised her. A young witch with a round face and hazel eyes: Penelope Clearwater, Percy’s onetime girlfriend. The woman had tears running down her face, but Hermione had to stay strong and pass her by.

Hermione hadn’t seen the Ministry courtrooms in person before, but Harry had described them to her from seeing them in Dumbledore’s Pensieve. This one was a claustrophobic octagonal room with a high ceiling. There were more dementors in here, standing in the opposite corners. Yaxley was there, to her surprise. That could complicate things. And two guards were also maintaining Patronuses in the courtroom, so the danger was not too severe, as far as that went, although they clearly were only there to protect the judge’s bench, not the accused.

Hermione took her seat, and it wasn’t hard to see what she was supposed to do. There was a stack of forms to fill out and a Dictaquill to record speech in real time. There also seemed to be a scroll for notes describing the proceedings that speech alone wouldn’t capture. That would be the actual scrivener’s work. She was still unsettled. Even with Umbridge’s Patronus prowling between her and the dementors, she felt the hopelessness of the chamber like a tangible thing along with a nagging feeling that the whole operation was doomed to failure.

“Inquisitorial hearings for the Magical Heritage Restoration Project, for the fifteenth of September, 1997,” Umbridge said. “Investigating alleged muggle-born wizards for interfering with Ministry of Magic business. Interrogators: Dolores Jane Umbridge, Senior Undersecretary to the Minister and Head of Project; Corban Yaxley, Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement; Court Scribe Mafalda Hopkirk, Head of the Improper Use of Magic Office.”

Hermione took that as her cure to start taking notes. She picked up the quill to write, and only then did she noticed the scars on her hand that read, _I must not tell lies_ , were gone. For some reason, that disturbed her more than it should have.

“Bring in the first prisoner,” Umbridge called.

The doors of the courtroom opened, and a dishevelled, dark-skinned young man stumbled in. He was thin and unkempt, but he still managed to gaze up at Umbridge with defiance in his eyes. Hermione had to bite back a gasp when she saw him.

“Dean Thomas. Sit down,” Umbridge said, her soft, sickly-sweet voice magnified to fill the courtroom.

Dean kept glaring at her, but he sat in the chair in the centre of the room. Chains immediately wrapped around his arms and legs, holding him in place.

“You are Dean Nelson Thomas?” Umbridge asked.

“Who wants to know?” Dean said.

Umbridge didn’t react. She just continued in her soft, silky tone: “Mr. Thomas, you are in a very precarious position—suspected of tampering with Ministry family records.”

“I wasn’t bloody tampering,” he said. “I was trying to find out who my dad was.”

 _Oh, Dean,_ Hermione thought. Why would he even try that? So he could get back into the magical world and fight?

As far as they knew, no one was _actually_ arrested for “stealing magic”. Those who _were_ charged were charged with things like “resisting arrest” or “impeding a Ministry investigation,” and then their ancestry was looked into. For those muggle-borns who were let go after that, the official documents said that they had been given wands as a “clerical error”, and the privilege had been revoked as a result. Hermione could see where that was going. If the regime was allowed to go on, they would eventually try to classify muggle-borns as magical creatures—or maybe just creatures—and as such ineligible to use wands by conventional laws. And eventually, stripped of the rest of their rights as well. A more roundabout way to reach the same destination.

“Your mother is Martha Thomas, a muggle housewife?” Umbridge pressed.

Dean groaned: “If you must know, her legal name is Martha Clarke. She Martha Thomas was when I was born. My dad gave his name as Edmund Thomas, but Mum thought that might not have been his real name.”

“And where is your father now?”

“Dunno,” Dean said. “He disappeared a few months after I was born—”

“Hardly remarkable,” Umbridge interrupted. “Probably just a muggle tramp who didn’t want to take responsibility for his son. That’s a common reaction among muggles—”

“Don’t talk about my dad like that!” Dean shouted more forcefully that Hermione would have thought him capable of with the dementors. “He told Mum he had to leave to protect us from something. It was in the last year of the last war. He didn’t explain much, but after we found out I was a wizard, Mum put the clues together and figured out he must’ve been one too.”

“A likely story,” Umbridge said, taking the same patronising tone she always did as a teacher. “Awfully convenient that you can’t produce any evidence of this supposed father, isn’t it, Mr. Thomas?”

“Well, that’s why I was trying to find evidence in the records,” he answered.

“And why did you not come directly to us?”

“Because I didn’t think it was smart to come to you without evidence.” He rattled his chains. “And what do you know? Judging by how you’re treating me, I was right!”

“You are being questioned because you were detained on suspicion of tampering with Ministry records and impeding an official investigation. Nothing more,” Umbridge said. “However, as you cannot prove your magical ancestry, there are certain other considerations.”

“I’m _telling_ you, my dad was a wizard,” Dean growled. “If we can figure out who he might’ve been, I can prove it.”

Umbridge leaned forwards and took on an inquisitive tone, but Hermione could tell she already knew what the outcome would be. _Dean, what are you doing?_ she thought. “Very well, Mr. Thomas,” Umbridge replied. “Do you have any documentation as to the supposed identity of your father?”

“Not that I believe has his right name on it—”

“Well, then, without any proof—”

“But there’s got to be tests for that kind of thing!” he yelled. “Hell, even muggles have tests for that!”

“Muggle tests can easily be tampered with—”

“Isn’t this whole thing supposed to be about finding hidden magical heritage of supposed muggle-borns?” Dean said. “Shouldn’t I be the poster boy for this farce?” He stopped and slumped back in the chair, letting out a hollow laugh. Hermione could see his hands were shaking. “Why am I even arguing this, Umbitch? We both know what this is about. You’re mad that we all kicked your arse out of Hogwarts last year.”

Hermione shook her head subtly, trying to draw his attention. _No, Dean, don_ _’t antagonise her,_ she thought. _The time to defy authority is_ not _where there are bloody dementors breathing down your neck._ What was he even _doing_ here? He was supposed to be in hiding!

“Mr. Thomas, I demand _respect_ in this courtroom,” Umbridge said, starting to sound genuinely irritated. Hermione hoped the boys were making good progress because she didn’t know how much more of this she could take. She wanted to do something, her anger burning through the aura of despair, but she knew she couldn’t take on Umbridge and Yaxley and hold back the dementors at the same time.

Dean demurred somewhat and continued arguing with Umbridge, asking her what the procedures were to locate and test a person’s magical relations. Umbridge, for the most part, spouted some vague platitudes and evaded the question. Hermione suspected there was no such procedure. Probably, any evidence they presented was manufactured, and they weren’t looking beyond people’s self-reported heritage at all—just compiling a list of Enemies of the State. Unfortunately, neither of them seemed to have much patience with the other.

“I want to know what grounds you have to confiscate my wand,” Dean demanded.

“You never _had_ the right to carry a wand, Mr. Thomas,” Umbridge replied. “There was a simple clerical error—”

“That’s hippogriff dung, and you know it. The International Confederation of Wizards’ Convention on Wand Use of 1692 guarantees a wizard the right to carry a wand at all times.”

“Not the criminals,” Umbridge said primly.

“ _Oh_ , charged with a crime now, am I?” he said. “That doesn’t sound like a clerical error.”

Hermione hissed softly. _You_ _’re not going to win this argument, Dean. Drop it._

“That is enough,” Umbridge said. “Since you cannot prove your status in the magical community, it is clear that you should not have been granted the privilege of carrying a wand.”

“I am a _wizard_ ,” Dean snapped. “I can pick up a wand and cast any spell you can. I don’t know what dictionary you’re using, but if you want to say I’m not a _rea_ l wizard, grow some balls and say it!”

“ _Enough!_ Mr. Thomas, I hereby declare you guilty of contempt of court and impeding a Ministry business and sentence you to sixth months in the Ministry holding cells. Your wand privileges are revoked forthwith. Take him away.”

The chains uncoiled, releasing Dean, and he sprang to his feet. Two guards moved to grab him, but he fought against their grasp. “This is bollocks!” he shouted, but Hermione could see the tension in his face and neck. “This is a kangaroo court, and everyone knows it!”

“Desist now,” Umbridge said, not raising her voice. “You are only making it worse for yourself be resisting.”

Dean kept struggling. “You know how crazy this is!” he told the guards. “Geroff me! This whole thing is a sham!”

“This is your final warning,” Umbridge said softly. “If you continue to struggle, you will be subjected to the Dementor’s Kiss.”

Dean went limp. Umbridge didn’t give the order, but two dementors swooped towards him, eager at the prospect of a potential meal. His composure finally cracked, and he flinched away from them, his knees shaking and tears trickling from the corners of his eyes.

Hermione’s blood ran cold, and her own patience ran out. She couldn’t bear to see a friend subjected to the dementors like that. _Please hurry, Harry_. She centred herself, focused on her memory of her favourite holiday with her parents when she was young, and drew her wand.

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

The silvery otter burst from her wand and swam through the air to encircle Dean, swatting demetors and guards alike away from him. Umbridge, Yaxley, and the other Aurors stared in shock as “Mafalda Hopkirk” stood up in the middle of the courtroom with wand extended to protect a prisoner.

However, Umbridge had seen her Patronus at her O.W.L. exam and soon put the pieces together. “G-G-Granger!” she shouted.

No element of surprise now. Hermione snapped out her other wand and cast a silent Summoning Charm. Dean’s wand flew from where it lay on the bench to her hand, and she tossed it to him.

“Hermione?” he said in shock.

“Stay close,” she said, maintaining the Patronus with one wand and casting spells with the other. She got close enough to him that her Patronus could protect both of them. Dean reacted quickly and started throwing hexes at the advancing Aurors as they backed towards the door. The two guards who had manhandled him were already down, stunned, but that still left four on two, all trained except Umbridge, though she was no slouch, as Hermione had thought before. The backed away to the door, and Hermione blasted it open. The prisoners outside jumped at the commotion.

“That’s Granger! Stop her!” Umbridge yelled.

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ Yaxley shouted, and Hermione dodged the green spell, pulling Dean with her. They tumbled into the hallway and found themselves surrounded by yet more dementors.

“Patronus!” she ordered as she waved her wand back and forth, directing her own Patronus to scare the dementors away. They backed off but still pressed towards them as close as they could. The other prisoners stood, blinking into the light as the weight lifted.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ Dean shouted, but his wand produced only a fizzle of light.

“Try harder!” _Stupefy! Vanderwalis! Rigor Mortis!_

Her Patronus swam encouragingly around Dean and bathed him in its light. He waved his wand again. _“Expecto Patronum!”_ His Patronus emerged fully-formed. An impala, gracefully leaping around the corridor, and the combined light chased the dementors further away.

_“Stupefy!”_

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_“Viscera Expellite!”_

_“Carnifex!”_

Yaxley and the other Aurors weren’t pulling punches. One of the prisoners was struck by the Killing Curse and dropped like a stone. Another had a chunk taken out of his side.

“Dammit!” Hermione muttered. _Calcifrango!_

Her silent spell struck the arch over the courtroom entrance, shattering the mortar, and the stone blocks collapsed, blocking it off just before Yaxley reached it. The whole corridor rumbled from the impact, and for a tense moment, she worried the ceiling would collapse.

“What are you waiting for? Run!” she told the prisoners.

They ran. The dementors fled from their Patronuses as she and Dean were caught up in the tide of bodies. Moments later, she heard a crash behind her. Yaxley had blasted his way through the barricade. The corridor would be a shooting gallery for him. They had to get out of there.

The Department of Mysteries was up the next flight of stairs, and if it were just her and Dean, she would consider hiding there like she had with Harry, but with this crowd, that wasn’t an option.

“Does anyone else have a wand?” she called.

A few of them did—perhaps they were family members of prisoners; perhaps they had some reason they hadn’t been confiscated. They started casting back at the Aurors, but they were demoralised, and they weren’t fighters to start with. Penelope was the only one who managed a Patronus, but it was non-corporeal and barely held the dementors at bay. Fortunately, the Atrium was only one level above the Department of Mysteries, and she had asked Kingsley where the stairwells were. She didn’t want to risk the lifts. Her muggle upbringing told her not to trust a lift in an emergency, and they were slow and could possibly be overridden. She motioned for the prisoners to follow her to the stairwell up to the Atrium. That wouldn’t go unnoticed, and the prisoners from the holding cells up on Level Two would have a much harder time, so she made the call, prayed she wasn’t jumping the gun, and tapped out a message to Kingsley on her ring to go.

A tall figured appeared in the stairwell, and the other muggle-borns froze in fear.

“It’s Runcorn!”

“We’re trapped!”

“Run!”

They turned and fled the only direction they could: toward the Department of Mysteries.

“No! No, it’s Harry! Stop!” Hermione cried. Dean and a few of the others stopped, but about half of them kept running In retrospect this was a serious flaw in the plan, although they hadn’t planned on the prisoners running into Harry like this. “Harry! Patronus, and get them out of here!” she said.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ Harry bellowed, and a silver stag leapt from his wand and galloped down the corridor towards the dementors, stunning all who were watching. Hermione turned and ran after the others. She heard Runcorn’s booming voice behind them: “Get to the Atrium. Floo out, and get out of the country. There’ll be people to help you.”

Hermione heard footsteps running behind her. She turned and pointed her wand, but she saw it was Dean. His Dumbledore’s Army training had kicked in, apparently. They reached the spinning room where the different divisions of the Department of Mysteries converged. Two of the doors were standing open. She quickly cast a spell to hold them there. “Split up!” she ordered.

“That’s really you, Hermione?” Dean said, finally having a moment to speak

“Yes—” She thought and tried something. _Expecto Nuntium_ , she thought, giving her Patronus the ability to speak. She concentrated on a message, and the otter spoke in her real voice: _“The Patronus doesn’t lie, Dean.”_

“Find the other prisoners. We have to get out fast,” she said.

“On it!” he said. They ran through separate doors. Hermione found herself in the dark room with the models of the planets, lit only by the spark of light at its centre representing the sun (besides the doorway). She could hear scrambling footsteps ahead, but she didn’t have time to catch up, so she sent her Patronus ahead of her to reach them.

 _“There’s no way out this way,”_ it spoke. _“We have to get to the Atrium. That wasn’t Runcorn. It was Harry Potter. We’re here to get you out of here. Follow me.”_

Her Patronus frolicked back in her direction as she approached at a brisk pace. It took a few moments for the prisoners to respond, but she soon heard shuffling footsteps moving in her direction. “Hurry!” she said when they approached. They made their way back to the entrance to the Department of Mysteries, but then, it all went wrong.

An alarm sounded through the Ministry—a loud animalistic screeching very different from muggle alarms. At that same moment, Hermione doubled over—not in pain, but from the writhing sensation that shot through her. She felt the feeling of snakes squirming in her gut and her skin crawling. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off. Already? Her Patronus winked out as her concentration broke. Mafalda Hopkirk’s clothes grew tight, and she quickly cast a temporary Resizing Charm so they would still fit long enough to get away. But until it finished, all she could do was stagger forward towards the exit. Then it got worse.

There was spellfire from outside. When they reached the round room, they had to stop and hide behind the door. Yaxley and Umbridge were there, flanked by two dementors and casting lethal spells at them. Dean and the group he was leading hid behind the door to whatever room they had entered as well, casting back the best they could.

Umbridge spotted her. “Miss Granger,” she said, still holding her own with her limited repertoire of spells. “How nice of you to join us.”

Hermione responded with curses, and not all of the spell variety. She tried to clear her head enough to cast the Patronus Charm again. It was hamstringing them having to hold back the dementors. There was only one other muggle-born with a wand behind her, but she let him cover for her long enough to get the charm out. _“Expecto Patronum,”_ she muttered, and the otter reappeared, and none too soon. One of the dementors swooped at her and she drove it away with as much force as she could muster, forcing it back against the door. But that was as far as she got.

There was a shout, a crash, and a loud crack. In the chaos, Hermione had lost track of how Dean was doing. Now, she looked up and saw he was sprawled on the ground in front of Umbridge while the woman dropped the broken halves of his wand to the floor and spoke two words.

Penelope summoned Dean with her wand and lunged to grab him, to pull him back and protect him, but it was the worst possible thing she could have done at that moment. The other dementor, spurred on by Umbridge’s order, swooped down blindly and grabbed Penelope by the chin instead of Dean. It lifted her up, pulled back its hood, and before anyone could stop it, placed its sucking orifice of a mouth over hers.

Screams filled the air. Hermione realised that one of the screams of her own. Several of the prisoners retched and vomited on the spot. She’d been shaken to the core by the existential horror of the very concept of the Dementor’s Kiss, but it was nothing compared with actually witnessing it. The only thing she could compared it to was the sense of impending doom that radiated from the Killing Curse in flight, only ten times worse. A feeling of such visceral _wrongness_ filled the chamber that she felt unclean just by being in its presence.

The Kiss only took a few seconds. Penelope’s body slumped to the ground, still breathing, but brain-dead.

Hermione somehow knew that she wouldn’t be able to cast a Patronus Charm again without several hours of meditation, so she went the opposite direction. She brought her wand up and reached for the darkest curses she knew. _“Photia Phaethon,”_ she hissed. A curse that would cause blindness with ultraviolent exposure to the eyes. _Rigor Mortis_. _Facio Sutura_. That one struck home—a nominal healing charm twisted for offensive use. Yaxley recoiled in pain as surgical sutures stitched themselves into the intact skin of his face, extending across his forehead and down his neck from the force of the force. _Commotio Cordis. Trigeminal Neuralgia. Emesis_. A little-used Vomiting Curse. _Terebradent_. _“Caridentibus.”_ A stronger curse that would actually rot the teeth, not just drill them.

But none of that would actually hold back the dementors. And no one in the room was in a state to cast the Patronus Charm. They couldn’t hold out like that for long.

And then Harry’s silver stag burst through the door and sent the dementors careening back into the Department of Mysteries with a shriek. Umbridge and Yaxley turned as a now-normal-looking Harry, Fred, and Emmeline Vance bowled into the room, and the whole chamber descended into chaos.

“Run!” Harry yelled.

“To the Atrium!” Emmeline added.

Hermione pushed the other muggle-borns along as Dean staggered to his feet. There were only four mobile besides Dean. He looked torn between helping and getting the others out, but Hermione shook her head. This wasn’t his fight. He nodded his acknowledgement, then grabbed Penelope’s limp body and threw her over his shoulder. Hermione didn’t comment.

They were fighting four on two at point blank range. Yaxley was by far the more competent of the pair and engaged all three of the other Order members while Hermione took on Umbridge. The toad-woman was holding her own surprisingly well, though Hermione was pretty confident she could beat her if Yaxley didn’t intervene. That didn’t stop Umbridge from trying to get to her through taunts and sneers, though.

“You have a lot of nerve showing your face here, Granger,” she taunted.

“You’ve got a lot of nerve showing your face outside Azkaban, Umbridge,” Hermione sniped back between spells.

“ _I_ am an upstanding citizen doing my part to preserve the strength of the magical world,” she replied haughtily. “ _You_ are a mudblood, a school dropout, and a coward who ran scared from me in the end.”

“I’d say discretion is the better part of valour.”

“Well, your ‘discretion’ just chose wrong, mudblood,” Umbridge sneered. “We’ll take care of you and that obnoxious blood traitor of yours—finish the job we started when the cowered left the school.”

The memory of the whip coming down on George’s bare back over and over again flashed through Hermione’s mind. She acted. She shattered Umbridge’s shield with an overpowered Club Hand Curse—a spell she had tweaked so that it could only be reversed by regrowing the bones. She didn’t give her time to recover as she let out a feral scream and snapped off a dozen dark spells in as many seconds, losing herself in the furious flashing of magic.

 _“Hermione! Hermione!”_ A hand clapped on her shoulder, and she spun, raising her wand, only to find it was Harry. Fred and Emmeline Vance stood beside him, mostly unhurt, but looking pale, staring at her in fear. Yaxley was nowhere to be seen.

“Harry,” she breathed.

“Bloody hell, what did you _do_ to her?” Harry said, staring down at Umbridge’s prone form. He looked a little bit ill.

“I stopped her,” Hermione said in a hard voice. “Yaxley?”

“Ran for it. We have to get out of here before he comes back.”

They ran out of the Department of Mysteries and back for the stairs. With luck, all of the prisoners from the courtroom had Flooed out by now. But just before they reached the stairs, Hermione heard a shout behind her and ducked almost on instinct. “Watch out!” she screamed. The four of them dove out of the way just before the Killing curse flew between them and exploded on the stairs. Yaxley was right behind them. He must have been waiting to chase them back into the shooting gallery of the corridor. Hermione was casting spells behind her at him when she heard a growl from above. An enormous black dog leapt over her head and knocked Yaxley to the ground. Sirius was there.

He was also a big target, but in some of the fastest transformation magic she’d ever seen, he transformed back to human form and rolled out of the way before Yaxley could get another curse off.

“Run!” he shouted.

Hermione didn’t argue. Harry started to, but she and Fred pushed him along. Sirius could take care of himself. She hoped.

“Where’s George?” she asked.

“Kingsley and Doge went to get him,” Emmeline said.

“He’s here!” Fred called.

They emerged into the Atrium. George, Kingsley, and Elphias Doge were running in from the lifts and heading for the fireplaces, followed by the prisoners from the holding cells.

“Get your arses moving!” a gravelly voice yelled. Moody and Hestia Jones were standing by one of the fireplaces, defending it, Hestia casting with her left hand. The first group of prisoners _had_ seemingly got out, but the two Order members couldn’t stop the other method of blocking them. Portcullises were dropping down over the Floos one by one. According to Kingsley, they were impervious to basically all locking charms, and blasting them out would be risky at best. There was no way they could get to any of the fireplaces in time.

“We’re trapped!” Emmeline said.

“We’re not,” Hermione told her. _How about a spell that bypasses locking charms,_ she thought. She focused as much power into the spell as she could and cast at the nearest fireplace. _Atithikhula!_ There was a shower of sparks and a shriek of shearing metal, and the portcullis shot out of the fireplace and flew across the Atrium.

There was a howl as Sirius was thrown out of the stairwell, in dog form again, and flew into the opposite wall and collapsed in a tangle of limbs. Hermione’s heart skipped a beat. Sirius transformed back to human and stood, limping to join them, but they didn’t get a reprieve. The Ministry’s security was pouring into the Atrium from the lifts—both Aurors and ordinary security guards.

“It’s Potter! Stop them!” Yaxley yelled.

Spells flew across the Atrium, and the regular Ministry workers ducked and ran for cover. They made it to the fireplace and started sending the prisoners through while the fighters held off the mounting attack. Once they were through, Emmeline, Doge, and Kingsley went next, and then, everything went white.

For a few moments, all Hermione knew was pain. Her ears were ringing, she had a nasty bump on the head, and she was sprawled across the floor with cuts and burns all over her body. Her body was sluggish in getting up. What had happened? She tried to think back to whether she’d heard a spell cast. Pettigrew’s Fragmentation Grenade Curse? Something else? Whatever it was, it had blown up the fireplace they were using. She could only hope Kingsley had got out okay. He’d been the last one through.

She took stock. Wands? Check. Both were still clenched tight in her fists and ringing with magic, though she had to wonder if they would still be intact if she hadn’t reinforced them with nanofibres. Arms? Check, obviously. Legs? To her relief, her legs obeyed her. She jumped to her feet, pushing through the pain with shear adrenaline. Her hearing was still off. She was pretty sure she was deaf in one ear, but for the other, sound was getting through again.

Hermione spun, taking stock. George and Fred were on their feet, still holding off the advancing security. They looked like they’d taken a beating too, but they hadn’t been as close to the blast. Sirius was still making his way to them. Harry was staggering to his feet. Hestia Jones’s prosthetic arm was mangled, but it looked like it had absorbed the entire brunt of the impact for her. A built-in Shield Charm? And Moody…

Mad-Eye Moody was lying on his back in a pool of blood, one eye socket empty, his eye rolling across the floor. His other eye was open and staring blankly.

Hestia was shouting at her. They needed another exit. Hermione ran. There was no time to get Moody’s body, though Hestia summoned his eye as she passed. They ran past the giant statue toward the more distant bank of fireplaces. Yaxley was still walking towards them, inexorable, with more Aurors behind him. They needed to slow him down somehow. They couldn’t risk him blowing up another Floo.

She paused as she passed the statue as her annoyed thought that she’d like to see it torn down like some third world dictator turned into an idea. _Marble_.

_Dos moi pa sto, kai tan gan kinaso._

As the others passed her, Hermione quickly ran her wand in a diagonal line across the base of the statue, just above the heads of the sculpted muggles and whispered, _“Anaplasso,”_ the general spell she had invented to rearrange atoms where she didn’t have a more specific charm. It was harder, but the transformation she needed was laughably simple—a tiny change leveraged to a huge effect. She didn’t need to change the molecules; she just needed to alter the crystal structure in a thin slab through the stone from an interlocking mosaic to a mathematical structure called an Apollonian sphere packing.

There was a tremendous rumble, and the crowd screamed and scattered as over fifty tons of marble _rolled_ down off of its pedestal on a carpet of thousands upon thousands of pearls like so many ball bearings. It fell to the ground with a thunderous crash, and the ascendant witch and wizard broke into pieces right in Yaxley’s face. She heard him shout as he was knocked to the ground.

Hermione nodded once with satisfaction and ran to catch up. She cast _Atithikhula_ again, ripping open another fireplace. The Order wasted no time. Hestia, Fred, and Sirius Flooed out. George paused just before he stepped into the fire.

“Damn, that was hot,” he said and stepped through. Hermione smiled in spite of everything.

“Aurors! After them!” Yaxley bellowed. He was up again, limping now—still more mobile than Hermione was, but he’d taken a beating—and he was _mad_. He staggered toward them as fast as he could, nearly on them now.

“Harry! Hurry!” Hermione cried. She stood her ground, trying to shield Harry’s escape. He dove through the Floo, and she followed, but she wasn’t quite fast enough. Even as she felt the fireplace whisk her along with a rush of air, she felt a hand grab the back of Hopkirk’s suit jacket. Yaxley’s hands wrapped around her throat as they tumbled out of the toilet cubicle. She didn’t hesitate. She turned on the spot and Apparated to the Factory.

They landed on the floor. Yaxley hesitated just a moment in surprise, and that hesitation cost him. Surrounded by a dozen hostile wands, he went down before he could blink. Everyone stared as Hermione pushed him off of her.

Fred broken the silence: “Bloody hell, we got him?”

“Yeah, we got Yaxley,” Emmeline said.

“That was too easy,” Harry said suspiciously.

“Easy?” Hestia snapped. “Mad-Eye bloody _died_ down there!”

“It still shouldn’t have been that easy to trap him,” Harry insisted.

Kingsley’s deep voice cut in. “Yaxley was not expecting to be Apparated directly to our base of operations,” he said. “The Death Eaters know we use the Fidelius Charm, and only the Secret Keeper is capable of Apparating in with a passenger.”

Hermione gasped as all eyes turned to her. That last, desperate move had been pure luck. If she weren’t the Secret Keeper, she wouldn’t have been able to Apparate here at all. But even so, they’d caught him; Umbridge was out of commission, and… “Runcorn?” she asked.

“He’s where I left him,” Harry said. “What do we do with _him?_ ” he pointed to Yaxley. “He knows the secret, now.”

“We’ll have to kill him,” Fred said.

“No. I will _not_ condone executing prisoners,” Kingsley said. “That would make us as bad as they are.”

“I’m not keen on it either, but he’s kinda right,” George said. “We can’t hold him anywhere, can we? He know where the Factory is, and even if he can’t tell the other Death Eaters, we won’t be safe from him.”

“We could Obliviate him, maybe,” Harry offered.

“No good,” Sirius corrected him. “Obliviation can be reversed by Legilimency, or failing that, torture.”

At this point, Hermione dropped to her knees beside Yaxley and reached into her handbag, retrieving a phial. “I have a solution,” she said, aching, but still pushing through it to finish the job.

“What is that?” Sirius asked.

“I call it Blissful Ignorance.” She uncorked the potion. “It’s a modification on the cocktail we used on Malfoy in second year. Forgetfulness Potion with a sedative component. It wipes the last half hour of memory _and_ makes it unrecoverable.” She paused in thought. “I don’t like it, but it can’t be made to work over a longer period, so I think it’s a reasonable concession these circumstances.”

Several of the Order looked impressed, but Sirius wasn’t one of them. “That’s not a complete fix, Hermione,” he said. “The way the Fidelius Charm works, even if he doesn’t remember and _can_ _’t_ remember, he’s still in on the secret. He could _find_ this place again.”

“No, he won’t,” she said coldly. She waved her wand at Yaxley’s face and uttered, _“Dornröschen.”_ A mist emerged from her wand and settled on the Death Eater’s face. It had no discernible effect except that he seemed to slip deeper into unconsciousness.

“Briar Rose?” Hestia said.

She nodded. “Kingsley’s right. We can’t stoop to executing prisoners. Too dangerous to let go, yes; killing them in battle, yes, but killing them when they’re bound and wandless?”

“It happens in war,” Hestia said. “You know it does.”

“Yes, I know it does, but it’s not supposed to,” she said. “In the muggle world, there are rules of engagement. We’re already…bending them here, but I’m not going to cross that line. Even as a rebel group. In the muggle world, any rebellion powerful enough to win will also have the facilities to hold prisoners. We don’t have that luxury. So I’ve been thinking about it, and I came up with this.”

“What is it?” Kingsley demanded.

“I suppressed his reticular activating system. He’s in a deep coma and literally incapable of waking up. It’s like the Draught of Living Death in spell form, except it works differently. Wiggenweld Potion won’t wake him. Only the specific counter-curse.” Her friend’s eyes widened, and they subconsciously took half a step back. She knew that was some serious curse-crafting on her part, but it seemed like the best possible compromise.

“Even like this, we’ll still need the resources to keep him alive,” Kingsley pointed out.

“No, we won’t,” Hermione said. “That’s the other part of my plan. Draught of Living Death would look conspicuously odd to muggles, but his coma won’t. We’ll drop him off at a muggle hospital with no ID. A _Catholic_ hospital so we’ll know they won’t pull the plug.”

“Pull the plug?” George said. Everyone else just looked shocked at the notion.

She sighed: “Withdraw care because they think there’s no hope of recovery. They’ll keep him alive. If it’s a really serious issue, we can compensate them later. We’ll Disillusion his Dark Mark. It’ll last long enough on a target that small. It’s the same thing I was going to do to Runcorn…” She stopped. “Unless you object, Kingsley. You have the final call if your not comfortable. It’s _some_ risk to the muggles, but it shouldn’t be much.”

Everyone looked at Kingsley. He thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think we’ll come up with a better option,” he said. “You’ve clearly thought this through carefully, Hermione. It’s the best way to keep them out of the way for the duration without crossing that line. Do it.”

* * *

A few hours later, both Yaxley and Runcorn were ensconced in muggle hospitals in different cities with no identification and a bit of magical modification to their facial features—nothing that would stand up to even a cursory magical investigation, but enough that the muggle doctors wouldn’t connect them to any missing persons reports that might be disseminated to the muggle world. As far as the Death Eaters would be able to tell, they would have just dropped off the face of the earth. Even Yaxley’s Dark Mark wouldn’t give him away without him being conscious to use it.

Hermione and the others got some much-needed medical care of their own. The job was done, despite the losses. The prisoners were released, and two of the three masterminds behind the hunting of muggle-born were out of the picture. As for the third…

“I just got word from “Augus—” Sirius started.

“Don’t need to know!” Hermione cut him off. The Order really needed that compartmentalisation.

“Right, sorry,” he said sheepishly. “Anyway, I heard through the grapevine about what happened to Umbridge. It sounds like you did a real number on her.”

“Really? What _did_ you do to Umbridge, Hermione?” George said. “Fred won’t even say anything.”

Hermione didn’t answer. Harry turned slightly green and shook his head.

“What, that bad?” George insisted.

“I…I lost my temper,” she said softly.

“Well, lost your temper or not, it was damn impressive,” Sirius said a little too gleefully.

“Hermione, what did you _do_?” George said worriedly, looking between them. “Did you kill her?”

Hermione still didn’t answer, but Sirius answered for her: “The last _I_ heard, they were still trying to figure out what was _done_ to her,” Sirius said. “All I know is, they say when they hauled her out of the Ministry, she looked like a modern art sculpture…and she was still _alive_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And at long last, we finally see Umbridge get her comeuppance. I’ve been waiting a long time to reveal her fate. No, I was never going to kill her…That would have been too kind. And more importantly, Hermione isn’t going to cross that line. She’s fine with killing in self-defence, but she won’t become a murderer, and Umbridge is not competent enough that Hermione would need to kill her to stop her.
> 
> The Magic is Might statue here is based on the concept art for the films, which was based on the Worker and Kolkhoz Woman sculpture in Moscow.
> 
> Non Illudere: literal Latin translation for “dis-illusion”.
> 
> Photia Phaeton: literally “Light of the Shining One” in Greek, named for the son of Helios who scorched the earth with the sun.
> 
> Emesis: Latin for “vomiting.” Also the medical term. Credit to RafeFallstar for this idea.
> 
> Caridentibus: stylised from the Latin for “decay of teeth.”
> 
> Radial Dysplasia: unused incantation for the Club Hand Curse. Medical term meaning “bad formation of the radius.”
> 
> Anaplasso: from the Greek for “reshape.”
> 
> Dornröschen: the original German name of Sleeping Beauty, or Briar Rose.


	62. Chapter 62

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling really didn’t think through the ethical implications of what the Carrows were doing to the students at Hogwarts…but she still owns Harry Potter.

Dean sat beside the immobile body of Penelope Clearwater where she was laid out on one of the beds in the Factory. She was still breathing on her own, but her eyes remained closed, and she didn’t move, even to turn in her sleep. As he gazed down at her body, Hermione came in and pulled a chair over to sit by him.

“How are you doing?” she asked softly.

“Still sick to my stomach,” he said.

“I know the feeling,” she said.

“She saved me.”

“I know.”

“I just…I wish I could do something for her.”

“I know.” Hermione had never seen the Dementor’s Kiss carried out, and she probably would have traded a year of her life to never have to witness it in person, but it was not to be. She looked down and the young woman and held the hand that couldn’t feel her.

“I don’t think I ever so much as talked to her when we were in school together,” Dean went on. “And then Umbridge set that thing on me and…” He didn’t finish.

“She helped me out once,” Hermione said after a pause. “When the whole Chamber of Secrets thing was going on, she helped me figure out that the monster was a basilisk and made the blue glasses that kept me from being petrified.”

Dean looked up at her: “Really? I think ‘helped you out’ is an understatement.”

“Yeah…”

That sat in silence for a few minutes. It was hard to think of anything to say at a time like this. After a while, Dean started shaking his head. “This is wrong,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” Hermione agreed.

“I mean, this is _wrong_. She’s lying there without a…” _Without a soul._ “That’s not supposed to happen! I went to church growing up, you know. They’d have thought this was ridiculous—impossible. It’s not supposed to work like this.”

Hermione nodded: “I did, too. A lot of wizards belong the same church I do and probably you do, but they go on believing… _this_ _…_ all the same. You’d think they’d be different having tangible proof of the existence of souls.” _Or horcruxes._ “I barely believed myself anymore, but when I learnt about that—I mean, shouldn’t that change _everything?_ ”

“You’d think, but they just…they don’t _think_ the muggle way,” Dean complained.

“I _know_ ,” she groaned. “So many wizards don’t have an ounce of logic. And this…augh!” _Where did this deal with the devil come from?_ She just couldn’t fathom what they were thinking.

Dean chuckled weakly. “My sentiments exactly, Hermione.”

She slumped back in her chair. “What were you doing in there anyway, Dean? I’m not judging, mind you, but I thought you’d go to ground fast and stay there.”

“I did at first,” he said, leaning back. “But I couldn’t just stay there. Not when other muggle-borns were being hunted down. I wanted to help. I’m pretty sure my dad _was_ a wizard, and magical Britain’s so small, there’s gotta be records on him somewhere, right?” Hermione nodded. A lot of purebloods didn’t have much perspective on how tiny a community of ten thousand was. “There can’t even be that many candidates,” he added. “Not that many black wizards, and he’d have to be the right age and had to’ve dropped off their radar either when he met Mum or when he disappeared.”

Hermione did the mental math. It was obvious when she thought about it. “A hundred at most even before the last bit,” she said. “Enough to find him in an afternoon if you could move freely.”

Even Dean looked surprised at how easy it ought to be. “I knew it was risky, but I thought I could do the most good if I could prove it and work from the inside,” he said. “You know, a wizard in good standing who actually _knows_ the muggle world helping the muggle-borns get out…Plus, I really wanted to know who my dad was.”

Hermione reached out and patted him on the shoulder. “I understand,” she said.

His hung his head, and his shoulders shook with anguish. “And now, Penelope got…Kissed trying to save me!”

“So what do you want to do?” Hermione asked.

“I don’t know. But I know this is _wrong_. I mean, my gut tells me wizards are _wrong_ about this. It tells me I shouldn’t give up on her…Am I nuts?”

“No, Dean. My gut tells me the same thing—has ever since I learnt what the Dementor’s Kiss was. Maybe someday…” she trailed off her idle speculation.

He looked her in the eye. “So what do we do?”

She shrugged: “Drop her off at another muggle hospital?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Would that help?” he asked.

“They’d keep her alive until the war’s over. That’s what I’m concerned with now. I’d _like_ to get her a brain scan, too, but we don’t have time to worry about that.”

“I could—”

“You need to take care of yourself first, Dean.”

“I will, Hermione, but I want to _do_ something, too…but now I don’t even have my wand,” he sighed.

“We have some people we can connect you with,” she told him. “And as for your wand. I can help you out with that.”

“You can?”

“Of course. I’ll need a few of your hairs, a couple drops of blood and some wood glue. Now, what kind of wood was your old wand…?”

* * *

Harry was subdued as the subset of the Order reconvened. This operation had been his idea in the first place, even though Hermione had jumped in with both feet, too, and they’d saved a lot of lives—or at least saved a lot of people’s freedom. But even so, losing Moody really hurt, and she knew he’d be feeling guilty. So did she, a little, but everyone had agreed this was a good strategic move. She remembered what Dumbledore told her in his posthumous message: sometimes, you can make all the right moves and still lose.

“I don’t think we can beat around the bush here,” Kingsley said at the mini-Order meeting. “The way the Order of the Phoenix is organised now, someone needs to replace Mad-Eye as co-leader, and coordinator of his cell.

“Right,” Sirius agreed. “We can’t be adrift, not reporting to anybody, and I’m guessing putting us under you or Minnie would defeat the purpose?”

“Yes,” Hermione said. “Cells need to be small: two to four only.”

“So how _do_ these things work?” asked Fred.

“The standard thing to do would be to promote someone in his subcell to his spot, and so on down the chain,” she said, “but it could be anyone, really. We’re barely maintaining the cell structure as it is.”

The group looked around at each other. Hermione knew in broad strokes the structure of Kingsley’s branch of the organisation, even if she didn’t know the names. And with McGonagall at Hogwarts, she would be limited to people she could contact easily from there. So Hermione had a pretty shrewd idea of who had been under Moody.

Harry seemed to have the same idea, because he looked at Sirius, as did several others.

“Whoa, don’t look at me,” Sirius said. “Can you imagine _me_ in charge of this outfit?” It was a fair point. “Hestia, you’re the only other Auror we’ve got who’s not on maternity leave. Maybe you should do it.”

Hestia frowned and surveyed the group. “I could do it, but it’s not my first choice. Moving up the rankings in the Order doesn’t exactly put you on a desk job, and I’ve still only got one good arm. I’m curious if Hermione has any suggestions, since she brought it up.”

Hermione shook her head. She really didn’t. There were so few veterans of the last war left—good ones anyway. “I was just pointing out the possibility,” she said. “I don’t know. Who’s our most powerful fighter who’s still alive?”

“That’s hard to judge,” Kingsley said. “If we’re going by the cleverest and most versatile, it might even be you.”

“ _Me?_ ” she said in horror. “You’ve got to be joking! I’m just shy of eighteen, and I haven’t even completed my formal education yet. If _I_ _’m_ the best we’ve got, we’re screwed!”

“The best in one measure in particular,” Kingsley repeated. “There isn’t just one answer to that question. You shouldn’t sell yourself short, Hermione. You’ve been training yourself—heavily. I saw you fighting at the Ministry. You may not have the strength or speed of many of the veterans, but you’re smarter, and you have a far wider repertoire of spells—extra tricks up your sleeve that can tip the balance. Like what you did with the statue. I doubt anyone short of Dumbledore could have done that with raw power, but you found a way. Between that and what you did to Umbridge, I wouldn’t want to face you myself.”

Hermione looked down, her face flushing.

“That _was_ pretty disturbing,” Emmeline Vance pointed out.

“I know,” she said.

“And you pretty much had her down after about the first four spells.”

“I _know_ ,” she snapped. She took a deep breath. “I lost my temper—everything she’s done, was _going_ to do. Seeing her have Penelope Kissed. I lost it and took her down as hard as I could.”

“You’ve always had a bit of a vindictive streak,” George pointed out.

She looked up and glared at him, but her heart wasn’t really in it. “It wasn’t my best moment, no, but I’m not keen to help her anytime soon, either. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is, I’m not leadership material, and I _hope_ we have a dozen fighters who are better than I am.”

“That’s fair,” Harry said softly, “but Kingsley has a point. You’re _good_ when you’re on your game. I wouldn’t want to face you, either.”

“Harry, I’m pretty sure you could take me in a fair fight,” Hermione said.

Harry snorted: “Yeah, a fair fight where you only have one wand, and you can’t make up any new spells, and I already know all of your tricks.”

Hermione frowned. She could kind of see his point, but something about the thought unsettled her, especially after Umbridge.

Fred laughed: “He’s got you there, Hermione. And you’ve been doing a lot to help run the Order as it is. You made the rings.”

“Fred, half the reason I made the rings in the first place was that I was trying to do too much on my own. Why are we even considering this? Promoting me would take me out of _my_ cell, and I’m needed here to work with Harry.”

“We are considering all of our options, Hermione,” Kingsley said. “Right now, you and Hestia are the only ones on the table. Sirius doesn’t want it, and there aren’t many others I’d trust with leadership. Elphias? Emmeline?”

Emmeline quickly indicated a negative, and Doge said, “I think I can do more good where I am, Kingsley.”

“I see,” he replied. “Hestia, I hate to impose a responsibility you don’t want—”

“I’ll do it,” she said resignedly. “If I’m the best candidate, it’s better this way.”

“Good. Thank you, Hestia. Now the next order of business: what should our next move be?”

“I want to bury Moody,” Harry blurted. He flinched when everyone stared at him in disbelief. “I—I mean, I know we can’t get his body back…” He shuddered. “The Death Eaters probably burned it by now—or worse. But you got his eye, right? I think we ought to give him a proper memorial.”

Hestia nodded and pulled the oversize, pale blue eye from her pocket. It had been cleaned of blood and was still roving around on its own, staring in a very unnerving way. “Bury the eye, then?” she asked skeptically.

Harry nodded.

“But can we make use of it, though?” Hermione suggested. “Learn from it? Or have someone use it without losing an eye of their own?”

“Could you do something with it?” Hestia asked.

“Me? No. I have too much to do already. But maybe we could pass it along to Bill or Arthur.”

Harry’s face fell. “I feel like we ought to do something for him,” he said.

“Ah, that old soldier would’ve wanted us to grab any advantage we could, Pup,” Sirius said. “I don’t know if much will come of it, but we can pass it along.”

“Harry, if you want to memorialise Moody, maybe a propaganda campaign would be better,” Hermione pointed out. “Have people put up posters of him in Diagon Alley declaring him a martyr or something.”

Harry looked a bit happier at that, and Hestia said she’d look into whether they could pull it off.

“We’ll need to be careful,” Kingsley warned. “The Death Eaters will retaliate. They will try to hunt us down, if they can, and they will go after the remaining muggle-borns more aggressively.”

“Oh…” Hermione muttered. Of course there would be consequences to their raid. But it was still probably the best thing, she told herself, both with regard for morale and in tangible gains.

“They’ll have a hard enough time finding us, though, won’t they?” asked Fred. “We’re all in hiding.”

“ _We_ are,” Sirius pointed out. “A lot of the Death’s Eaters’ enemies aren’t, or aren’t as well-hidden.”

“There’s only so much we can do for them,” Hestia said practically. “If anyone has ideas for another raid, I’m open to them, but anything we do will have the same risks as the Ministry. We can only afford to act where it really matters.”

There was a pause as everyone waited for someone else to speak before Harry said his piece. “I’ve been thinking about that a little,” he said. “I saw all the muggle-born prisoners we freed yesterday were adults. I know we got the word out to a lot of the students at Hogwarts, but that can’t have been all of them. What are they doing about the kids?”

“It might have been all of us students, Harry,” Hermione said. “The muggle-borns at Hogwarts all know each other, at least in the same house—enough to get the word around to all of us…Although I don’t know about the new first years.”

“McGonagall just didn’t send their acceptance letters this year,” Doge spoke up. “The muggle-born eleven-year-olds still don’t know anything about magic. Not that that’s especially healthy. They’ll keep going around doing accidental magic—”

“Oh, _crap!_ ” Hermione shouted.

 _“What?”_ everyone said.

“Accidental magic! The Ministry tracks it. They have the Accidental Magic Reversal Squad. All the muggle-born kids who are too young for Hogwarts are on the Ministry’s radar because of that.”

“Radar?” asked Emmeline.

“Muggle invention. Not important. The point is, the Ministry knows where all the muggle-born kids are.”

Harry paled as he understood the implications, and she could tell the others were starting to get it, too. “Oh, Merlin,” he said, “and the Death Eaters have been controlling the Ministry since January. They could’ve been picking off muggle-born kids for _months_.”

Kingsley shook his head: “No, I’m reasonably sure they didn’t start before the Muggle-Born Registration Commission started working. And families move, and children go to school, so they couldn’t be sure of finding the right children unless they attack each case of accidental magic when it occurs.”

“Ah…so at this point, probably nine out of ten of them are still okay,” Hermione estimated.

“But that won’t last long,” Harry said. “Is there any way we can help them?”

Hestia shook her head: “Not unless you want to stage another raid on the Ministry, steal the records, and piece together the kids’ identities through guesswork. You should’ve thought of this _before_ the op.”

Harry’s face fell. He wouldn’t want to admit it, but it would be nearly impossible to get into the Ministry again, and they wouldn’t be able to find the right kids any better than the Death Eaters.

“Kingsley, is there any way one of your spies could smuggle the records out?” asked Hermione.

Kinsgley sighed: “I might be able to convince one of them that it’s worth the risk, but it will be hard with the increased security they’re sure to have.”

“Now wait just a minute,” Sirius cut in. “Why are we so worried about the Ministry? There’s another place that knows all the muggle-borns better than they do: Hogwarts!”

“The Book of Admittance,” Hermione whispered. “I can’t believe I forgot about that. It’s been so long since I read _Hogwarts, A History_.”

“The what?” Harry said.

“Honestly, Harry, didn’t you ever wonder how McGonagall knows whom to send the letters to, especially for muggle-borns? There’s an enchanted book and quill in Hogwarts that records the name and address of every magical child in the British Isles the moment they show signs of magic. Their record is far more complete than the Ministry’s.”

“Exactly,” Sirius said. “Do you still have a way to sneak into Hogwarts?”

“If not sneak in, at least a way to talk to them,” Hermione said. “But I was hoping to find a way to go in person on Friday anyway. I wanted to see Septima on my birthday.”

“Didn’t they block off all the secret passages?” asked George.

She thought for a minute, then asked Harry to pull out the Marauder’s Map to get a better picture of the situation. After a couple minutes examining the lower levels, she had it. _“Eureka!”_ she said. “They closed off all of the passages leading out of the grounds, but that’s _not_ the only way to get in unseen. “Harry, do you fancy a swim?”

“Um…okay?”

* * *

“Hermione,” Hestia called her aside after the meeting broke up.

“Yes?”

“I apologise if I seemed antagonistic after the Mininstry. Losing Moody was hard, and I was just—”

“You were just doing your job for the Order,” she said. “I understand.”

“Thank you. I just wanted to ask, if you’ll be visiting Hogwarts, or at least talking to the students, if you’d check up on my sister.”

“You have a sister at Hogwarts?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Yes. She’s ten years younger than I am. Megan Jones. She’s a seventh-year Hufflepuff. We didn’t advertise last year that we’re related, but I’m sure the Death Eaters know. Could you just make sure she’s doing alright, and see that someone’s watching over her?”

“Of course, Hestia. She wasn’t in the D.A., though.”

Hestia sighed: “No. I told her to keep out of it while it was still a shadow war and gave her private lessons instead, but it doesn’t much matter now. She’ll probably join now if you ask her. I’d tell her to go ahead myself, but I can’t contact her safely.”

“I’ll talk to her,” Hermione assured her. “I can’t promise anything, but the D.A. has been pretty good at watching each other’s back so far.”

“Thank you, Hermione.”

* * *

You couldn’t Apparate into Hogwarts, and according to their reports, Hogsmeade was under patrols, but there was still one place accessible to the castle that Hermione _did_ know how to Apparate to. She and Harry appeared in the middle of the woods next to the rune stone she had found at the end of fifth year, along the ley line from Hogsmeade to Hogwarts Castle.

“How did you know this was here, again?” Harry asked her.

“I needed to find the exact location of the ley line to use my ritual to remove the Trace.” She consulted her compass. “Come on: that way.”

The walk was slow-going. They had to traipse through the woods nearly two miles southwest to reach the part of the Black Lake that extended outside the wards. They proceeded under Disillusionment Charms once they got out of the trees just in case a lookout was watching from the castle through a telescope. They approached the shore line.

“You remember the Bubble-Head Charm, Harry?” Hermione asked.

“Yes, you already reminded me,” he said.

“Okay, just making sure we’re ready. _Ebublio_.” She could detect the slight change as the smells of nature faded when the invisible bubble appeared around her head. “Let’s go,” she said. They waded into the water and readied their method of transportation.

Harry knew from experience that it took the better part of an hour to cross the Lake underwater with ordinary swimming. They had considered using Gillyweed to speed it up (something Hermione thought she’d like to try sometime anyway), but they decided it would be safer to use a more reliable method: brooms.

Broomsticks were waterproof, since they had to fly in all weather, and while they weren’t designed to fly underwater, they were powerful enough to do it. The terminal velocity of an object in a fluid was inversely proportional to the square root of the density. Harry’s _Firebolt_ had a top rated speed of 150 miles per hour in air, so underwater, it could make just over six miles per hour, three times as fast as they could swim and the fastest method they could do on short notice. For Hermione, they had contacted Ron and convinced him to lend her his _Cleansweep Eleven_. It wasn’t quite as fast, but she was lighter and presented a smaller cross section to the water, so she could keep up.

The brooms turned a long, hard swim into a fifteen-minute underwater “flight”. They proceeded across the Lake, crossing the wards without being detected. Even with the dementors that were patrolling the boundaries of the grounds (to Hermione’s great dismay) they weren’t noticed underwater.

They stayed under even as they entered a tunnel, and the water darkened around them. They lit their wands to keep moving forward, revealing glittering quartz scattered throughout the rock. A little farther, and they surfaced in the crystal cave where the boats brought the new students to the castle. They didn’t go to the same staircase the first-years took, though. That led to the front doors outside the castle. Instead, they kept floating through the cavern on their brooms to reach the very heart of Hogwarts: the glowing quartz stone circle that formed the Foundation Stones of the castle—the tunnel Hermione had wanted to explore her very first night there, but had never got the opportunity. Now, it was their secret way in.

They didn’t bother dismounting and climbing the two hundred foot staircase to the castle proper. There was enough climbing in the castle itself. They let their brooms carry them up instead, and Hermione stuffed them in her expanded handbag when they reached the top while Harry pulled out the Marauder’s Map. Once they knew the coast was clear, she unlocked the door into the castle, and they found themselves at the base of the Grand Staircase.

“Wow. Great job, Hermione,” Harry said.

“Happy to be back?” she asked.

“Not the way things are now. We shouldn’t take the Grand Staircase. It’s too exposed. This way.”

They climbed up the back way, taking the lesser-used staircases in secluded corners of the castle, doubling back whenever there was any trouble. Twice, Harry had to pull Hermione out of the way of a patrolling teacher or wandering student before they made their way to the seventh floor. When they got there, they saw one name on the Map waiting in the corridor.

 

_Anthony Goldstein_

 

Harry and Hermione looked at each other and shrugged. _Well, Map doesn_ _’t lie_ , Hermione thought. They stepped around the corner. “Psst. Anthony,” Harry said.

Anthony spun around and snapped his wand up, although they were both ready to defend themselves. “Password?” he asked softly.

“Bonhoeffer,” Hermione said.

Anthony nodded once and lowered his wand, motioning for them to follow. “This way.”

“Where are we going?” asked Harry.

“Neville figured out how to get the Room’s entrance to move,” he said.

“You can _do_ that?” Hermione hissed.

“Yeah. We can seal it off so none of the Carrow supporters can get in, but the patrols are too tight for us all to sneak into the same place every time. Plus, Umbridge kinda found out where it was before.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Harry admitted.

“But how?” she demanded.

Anthony gave a slight smirk over his shoulder: “Turns out it doesn’t just take requests from the outside. It takes them from the inside, too. Neville also appointed a lieutenant for each of the other houses to run things when we can’t all get together,” Anthony explained. “Me for Ravenclaw, Susan for Hufflepuff, Daphne Greengrass for Slytherin.”

“What about Luna?” asked Harry.

“She said we should have a seventh-year for it. We’ve been recruiting again. Not a lot yet, but we’re still growing.”

“Good to hear.”

“Yeah, well, we need it,” he muttered. “We’re here.”

Anthony opened the door—placed in the middle of a disused corridor on the sixth floor—and revealed a winding staircase. It was stretched in a non-Euclidean path that Hermione thought _should_ have intersected one of the other corridors and ended, if here sense of direction hadn’t failed her, right around where the entrance to the Room of Requirement ought to have been to start with. Her mind was whirling with the possibilities. The Room could change its configuration on both sides, to the point where it could send its entrance out to anywhere in the castle, not just affect the wall where it was supposed to sit. She had to wonder if that was an intended feature.

The door to the Room proper opened, and the three stepped inside. There were twenty or so people there—not enough to be a full meeting, but they were from all four houses.

“Harry! It’s Harry!”

“Hermione!”

They all leapt to their feet, rushing to greet the two heroes—at least, that how Hermione felt they were treating them. Neville and Luna were at the front, and they both hugged her.

“Hello, Hermione,” Luna said. “I’m glad to see you’re well. I heard how you helped free the muggle-borns from the Ministry. That was very brave. Oh, and happy birthday.”

“Thank you, Luna,” she said. “It’s good to see you, too. Neville, how are you?”

“As well as can be expected,” he said. “It’s lonely up in Gryffindor. Me and Seamus are the only ones in our dorm now, and only three girls, too.”

It was then that Hermione noticed there was a cut on Neville’s face—bandaged, but not magically healed. “Neville, someone hurt you?”

He touched his face briefly. “Yeah, that was Amycus.”

“The Defence teacher?”

“Dark Arts teacher, remember? The Carrows are in charge of all punishments. I got this ‘cause I wouldn’t go along with his Dark Arts lessons. They want us all to learn the Unforgivable Curses.”

“They _what?_ ” Harry and Hermione shouted together.

“The N.E.W.T. students, that is. It’s not as easy as just pointing your wand—”

“Neville, you can’t—!” Hermione started.

“I didn’t. I refused. Got detention instead. But most of us carried over the N.E.W.T. class from last year, and we still learn to fight there, sort of. Anyway, some blokes are into it. Crabbe and Goyle are finally getting good marks, for once.”

“That is just…so wrong,” Harry said.

“I know. We all deal with it differently. I flat-out refused. Some people fake it. They go through the motions, but can’t or won’t put any power into the spell. Some people are scared enough that they actually try.”

“Neville, that’s not good,” Hermione said.

“I know, but it’s not technically illegal.”

“That doesn’t matter!” she shouted. “When the war’s over, they won’t just ignore that. War crimes trials aren’t like regular trials…” She stopped, realising that people were staring at them. She was thinking in terms of muggle law, but even so…She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to centre herself. How _would_ the muggle world do this? Wizarding Britain couldn’t afford a Nuremberg Trial that swept up half the older students in the country. The nation couldn’t withstand a shock like that, politically or demographically, not to mention how inhumane Azkaban was, even to people who were basically wizard Nazis. She thought back over the war crimes legislation she had specifically read over, but even that was an imperfect analogy. No situation this _extensive_ had ever happened in the muggle world, so far as she knew, and she didn’t know how the muggle world would react.

“At minimum,” she decided, “you need to document everything. Precisely what was ordered and what threats and other coercion were applied. You need to be able to fairly claim duress. In the muggle-world, even that might be enough to acquit the use of Unforgivables. It would be better if you organised mass resistance—convince _every_ member of the D.A. to refuse them. They can’t teach the class if no one will cooperate. If there’s no other way, consider dropping out of the class entirely.”

Neville pressed his lips into a thin line as he considered it. “Alright, I’ll try,” he said. “But it might wind up being like with you and Umbridge—fighting over rules and loopholes and winding up back where we started.”

“Is it really that dangerous here, Nev?” Harry cut in.

“Not really. I think they don’t want to spill too much pure blood, so I don’t think they’re gonna kill anyone. If you go against the Carrows, they’ll just chain you up for a while or cut you and not let you go to the Infirmary or something like that. For the worst of the worst they use the Cruciatus Curse on people in detentions, but you have to do something pretty bad, so even I haven’t got that…yet.”

“Neville, you shouldn’t be so cavalier about that,” Hermione said.

“Eh, gotta keep going or else I’ll crack up. Anyway, you wouldn’t’ve come here unless you had business. What’s up?”

Hermione frowned at his change of subject, but she moved on: “Right. Well, first, I need to see Megan Jones while I’m here.”

“Me?” a girl in a yellow-trimmed robe stepped forward. She did look like a younger version of Hestia, with the same dark hair and pointed chin.

“We brought her in right at the beginning of the year,” Neville explained when Hermione looked to him in surprise.

“Good. We can talk after the meeting, Megan,” Hermione said. “Your sister wanted me to check up on you.”

Megan’s eyes widened, and she nodded happily.

“Harry, care to explain?” Hermione asked her friend.

“Okay, here’s the situation,” Harry said. “We freed the muggle-borns who were being held prisoner by the Ministry.” Some of the students cheered at that.

“And Hermione pulled down the statue!” someone shouted from the back.

“Yes, that too,” he agreed. “That was pretty cool. That wasn’t all of the muggle-borns who are in danger, of course, but it sends a message. All the ones who were at school were warned because we got the word out. But there’s one more group we haven’t been able to help yet: the little kids who would have been first years or are too young to come to Hogwarts yet. They don’t know anything about magic yet, or that they’re in danger, but the Death Eaters can still find them…The Ministry tracks accidental magic.”

There were soft gasps as they understood. The thought was fairly horrifying. It would begin with something odd, but usually minor happening that often the child themself doesn’t know they caused. Certainly, that was how it had been for Hermione. And then, men in masks and robes wielding weapons that do impossible things burst into the house and torture and kill everyone inside, and they never ever know why. She didn’t like to think about it, and she knew they had to help, the same as Harry.

Harry continued to explain: “In case you don’t know, there’s an enchanted book and quill in Hogwarts that records the name of every magical child in the British Isles. It’s the only place that has better records than the Ministry. We need to get that book. If we get that book, we can stay a step ahead of the Death Eaters and save them.”

Neville stood up straighter. “You can count on us, Harry,” he said. “Where is the book?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said. “I need to check. Do you still have my map?”

“Sure.” He pulled out the Mathemagician’s Map and uttered the code phrase, _“Dos moi pa sto, kai tan gan kinaso.”_

Hermione took the Map and examined it. Harry’s map was good, but she was more confident in what she had and hadn’t been able to include with this one, and she had marked down details of all the hidden rooms even when she couldn’t get into them. It was so long ago that she couldn’t remember that well, but it wasn’t hard to find where the Book and Quill were located. “There,” she said. “The small tower above the Hospital Wing.”

“That’s not too bad, then,” Neville said. “We’ll only have to get through Madam Pomfrey.”

“Expect no student has ever been in that tower, Hermione,” Luna said. “Not since the school was founded. And the book has never been touched by human hands. It responds to voices. Do you think we can get to it without raising alarms?”

“Hmm…no, but I bet Dobby can. The elves have to be able to get into that room to clean.”

“Check it for enchantments,” Harry said. “If you don’t think you can take it without raising alarms, can you copy the pages? We need all births later than the first of September, 1985. It’s not ideal because they’ll still have access to it, but it’s better than getting caught.”

“Actually, don’t copy them. Photograph them,” Hermione said. “In fact, I’ve got a pair of Omnioculars in my bag to do it. All you’ll need to do is turn each page long enough to see it clearly.”

Luna smiled: “Okay, I think we can do that.”

“Alright, everyone,” Neville called to the group. “I think most of you can go back now. We’ll only need a few people for this. Just be sure to be ready to run interference with the Carrows if something goes wrong.”

“Yes, sir!” someone called.

Most of the D.A. left the Room, leaving only the leaders, Harry, Hermione, and Megan. Hermione left them to plan while she pulled Megan aside to talk.

“What did Hestia say?” Megan asked.

“She just wanted me to make sure you we okay and that someone was watching your back.”

Megan nodded and smiled a little. “Ah. Tell her thank you. Susan’s doing that pretty well. We both have family in Law Enforcement—had in her case. Did Hestia say anything about the D.A.?”

“She won’t mind that you joined. And _I_ _’d_ say it’s probably your best option right now.”

“Good. I was a little worried about that.”

“Is there anything you want me to tell her?”

“Just…tell her I love her,” she sighed. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what she’s doing?”

“No, sorry,” Hermione shook her head. “Just that she’s still fighting.”

“Alright. Well, tell her I’m okay, and I’m being careful…And…um, there’s one other thing I think you should know, Hermione…I have a boyfriend.”

“Oh?” If Megan was expecting her to squeal excitedly, she’d be sorely disappointed. She ought to go to Lavender and Parvati for that.

“Yeah, but the thing is…he’s a Slytherin.”

_“Oh.”_

“But he’s not the bad sort!” the words came pouring out. “He’s not with the Death Eaters, I’m sure of that! I trust him, but he has to keep his cover—”

“Megan! Megan!” Hermione cut in. “You don’t have to convince me there are good Slytherins out there. I’m the one who recruited Daphne and Tracey.”

“Sorry, it’s just, he’s from one of those families that sympathises with the Death Eaters, and he hates it. They’re pressuring him to take the Mark, too, and I don’t know how long he can hold out.”

“The Mark?” Hermione said worriedly. “Doesn’t he have to be close to You-Know-Who for that?”

Megan shook her head. “It’s different now. You-Know-Who’s already won. He’s casting the net wider to cement his reign.”

Hermione thought about the teachers forcing all the students to learn the Unforgivables. “I understand,” she said softly. _If it_ _’s true_. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting me to do with this information, though.”

“To be honest, I’m not sure, either. I just…I thought someone one the outside should know. Even most of the D.A. doesn’t know. I know you probably can’t save him from taking the Mark, but…it’s just that you and Harry are doing so much to help people go into hiding. I just thought…you know, if everything goes pear-shaped…”

“Ah, I think I follow,” she said. “I’ll make sure Neville and Luna know to contact us if you need help. And…I don’t know if you can, but please _try_ to find a way to keep him out of using the Unforgivable Curses.” She didn’t ask who the boy was. She guessed that she shouldn’t if Megan didn’t volunteer the information.

Megan’s face fell. “That’s gonna be hard, but I’ll try,” she said.

* * *

Septima’s apartment was more or less on the way to the Hospital Wing from the Room of Requirement, so Neville and his lieutenants dropped Hermione off at the portrait of Bridget Wenlock on the way, using the maps to make sure the coast was clear. They’d be okay, she thought. The plan was simple enough. The name of the game here was caution: watch their step the whole way, and if they couldn’t get through safely, back off and consult someone more experienced with cursebreaking. Being able to watch the maps, they had little chance of being caught even if they tripped an alarm.

Hermione knocked on Septima’s door, and a minute later, it opened. Septima’s eye grew to the size of saucers when she saw her.

“Hermione?” she gasped.

“Hi, Septima.”

“Come in, come in, quick!” Her favourite teacher ushered her inside and shut the door behind her. “Hermione, it’s so good to see you.” She hugged her tight, but then pulled away with a stern expression. “What on earth are you doing here? Wait, don’t answer that. It’s safer if I don’t know.”

“I wanted to visit you today,” Hermione said quietly. “We haven’t been able to talk since last spring.”

Septima slowly nodded, seeming to understand. “Happy birthday, Hermione,” she said, “though I wish it were under better circumstances. I hope you didn’t sneak into enemy territory just for _this_ , though.”

“Oh, no,” Hermione said, glancing back towards the door with a knowing look. “There’s something else going on out there, though with luck, you won’t know until we’re long gone.”

Septima shook her head. “I _definitely_ don’t want to know, then.” She proceeded to start a pot of tea, and they casually quizzed each other to verify their identities before they fully relaxes and sat down. “Have you been well, Hermione? I’ve only heard about you from news articles since we last met.”

“I’m getting by.” She said. “It’s been a hard summer. Mr. Lovegood murdered, the Twins shop firebombed. I’ve still been fighting, though.”

“I heard. They…they said you killed Jugson?”

Hermione’s face hardened, but she nodded. “Yes. Collapsed a wall on him. Found a way to specifically shatter the mortar between the bricks.”

“Merlin…are you okay?”

“I’ve made my peace with it. It was him or me, and I did what I had to. Anyway, I’ve been doing more since. Have you heard about the broadcasts?”

“What broadcasts?”

“Ah. Probably best that it didn’t get to you—not personally, but it means it’s staying secret. Tomorrow night, eight o’clock. Tune in on the wireless and use the password ‘Sybill.’”

“Sybill?”

“Yes, it’s one of the ways we’re disseminating information. You’ll understand when you hear it.”

“Alright. I’ll take your word for it. So…the raid on the Ministry—that was you, right?”

“It was. Me and some others.”

She smiled weakly: “And you knocked down that awful statue. With _pearls_ if the rumours are true. That was inspired—insane, but inspired. How did you do that? I saw it before the term started. It was huge.”

“Oh, that was easy,” Hermione told her. “Marble is recrystalised limestone, and limestone is made from seashells. It’s the same material. It was just a matter of realigning the crystals.”

“What about the extra space between the pearls?”

Hermione grinned: “ _That_ was a highly practical application of a fractal. Did I ever tell you about the Apollonian gasket.”

“I…think you might have, but I can’t recall at the moment.”

“Ah. Well, you know about Apollonius’ problem of tangent circles?”

“Of course.”

“Well, what I did with the pearls was a generalised and iterated form of that.” Hermione found a sheet of parchment and drew it out for her. Septima was very interested in seeing a fractal used in such a direct manner. She didn’t ask for any more details about the Ministry raid, and in particular, she didn’t ask about her old roommate, Umbridge, for which Hermione was grateful, although it remained something of an elephant in the room between them.

“So, how is Head of Slytherin treating you?” Hermione asked.

Septima chuckled a little. “You know, when Professor Slughorn retired, I was a little jealous of Snape. He was a first-time teacher only three years out of school himself, and Dumbledore made him Head of Slytherin when I had seniority. There’s something to be said for having teachers of core classes as heads of house, but that was just ridiculous.”

“And now?” Hermione ventured.

“Now? I’d take an early retirement just to have the Death Eaters out of this school. To keep Georgina and all my other students safe from them.”

“Are they expecting you to be on their side, being Head of Slytherin?”

“Not so much. They know I’m more or less neutral, and the Carrows handle the students from actual Death Eater families themselves. It’s just hard, seeing good kids fall into that, pushed into doing bad things.”

“Learning the Unforgivable Curses?” Hermione said.

Septima’s head snapped up: “You heard about that?”

“Yes. It’s a classic tactic of terrorist militias who recruit child soldiers,” she said, uncomfortably aware that she and most of the D.A. technically qualified as child soldiers themselves. “I’ve been reading up on the subject when I can. And I can see where they’re going with it, even if they’re not using them on humans yet. Force them to commit serious crimes and then tell them they’ll be prosecuted for them if the other side wins. And not without justification, I might add. It happened in muggle Rwanda, although I don’t think anyone’s ever done it to the entire youth of a nation. I don’t know what the…appropriate response would be to that.”

“Hmm. Ugly business,” Septima muttered, shaking her head.

“I told them to try to get those lessons shut down,” she added. “Protest or drop the class if they have to. You have to pick your battles, but by the standards I was raised with, that’s a pretty important one.”

“I understand. I’ll do what I can, too.”

“Thank you. Just…stay safe.”

They made small talk for a while longer. Hermione pulled out some of her maths notes and picked Septima’s brain for a while on some of the problems she was having, without telling her precisely what they were for. Privately, she thought she was close to a useful Soul-Detection Charm. She considered mentioning her work on blocking the Killing Curse, but decided against it. It really wasn’t relevant.

After a while, a knock came on the door—a prearranged rhythm that signified a member of the D.A. outside. Ever-cautious, Hermione held up her hand to stop Septima and proceeded to the door. She peaked out, pointing her wand through the crack. Neville and Luna were standing there.

“It’s done,” Neville said.

“I’m sorry to cut this short, Septima, but I need to go,” she called back.

“Of course, Hermione. I understand. Good luck.”

“Good night and good luck,” Hermione said. Septima would understand if she listened tomorrow night. She stepped though the door and closed Wenlock’s portrait behind her. She waited until they were out of earshot to ask, “The book?”

Luna shook her head: “No, we weren’t comfortable touching it. We got in and took the photos without any trouble, though. Dobby was very helpful.”

“Good,” she said. She assumed Dobby was slipping around someplace in typical elf fashion. “Harry?”

“Should still be back at the Room,” Neville said.

“Alright. Let’s get out of here before someone notices.”

With the maps, it wasn’t too hard to do that, but even so, Hermione wasn’t able to breath easy until she and Harry had slipped out and made another underwater “flight” across the Lake, this time in the dark of night, to get outside the Wards and Apparate back to the Factory. But they’d done it. They had the names of the magical children of Britain.

Next would be the hard part.


	63. Chapter 63

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling’s eyes bore into your soul.

“Okay,” Hermione said as she stared into the mirror. “Here it goes.” She took a deep breath, waved her wand, and incanted, _“Homenum Revelio.”_

She felt a wave of magic pass over her. It wasn’t strong, but she had a distinct sense of something swooping down on her. Ominous. She saw a pale aura appear around her reflection, just as it was supposed to. That one obviously worked.

Now for the real test. She waved her wand in a different pattern and carefully enunciated, _“Atma Prakata.”_

The feeling of this spell was different. Rather than a spirit swooping down, it resembled the feeling of a pair of penetrating eyes on her—the kind that seemed to bore into one’s soul—like Dumbledore at his best. It made her feel very self-conscious, and all the more so since it was as if she were staring into her own soul herself.

The aura that appeared around her reflection was brighter this time, and it wasn’t white, but a very familiar mix of colours—a mix of silver and blue swirling in and around her. Slowly, she drew her red oak wand and cast an unshaped stream of sparks with it. Exactly the same colours.

“Interesting,” she said to herself. “It seems to be working.”

Hermione’s Soul-Detection Charm was ready. With the extra hints she’d got from Septima, she’d been able to complete the construction, and after some trial and error, she was pretty sure she had a version that worked. It was deceptively simple. Wizards already had a clue with the Human Presence-Detection Charm and various magic-revealing charms. It was just a matter of refining them.

She bounded down the stairs from her loft to the bedrooms the boys had set up for themselves before she remembered it was a quarter past midnight, and she wound up with a startled Harry pointing his wand in her face.

“Eep! Sorry,” she squeaked. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Ugh. Merlin, Hermione, don’t do that,” Harry groaned, rubbing his eyes. “What are you doing up this late?”

“I was working. I just finished for the night.”

“Oi, what’s all the hubbub?” George said, stumbling from the Twins’ room with Fred behind him. “You stay up too late again, Hermione?”

“It’s not that late,” she mumbled.

“Technically, it’s early,” her boyfriend said, coming closer and hugging her from behind. “I’d say that qualifies as too late.”

Hermione half-heartedly fought him. “Well, I was nearly done with the spell I was working on,” she said. “I didn’t want to go to bed in the middle of it.”

George shook his head: “And knowing you, I’d bet you’ve been ‘nearly done’ for at _least_ the past hour.” Hermione turned red. It had been nearly two. “It could have waited till morning,” he said.

“Hmph,” she said, not dignifying that with a response. “It doesn’t matter because I finished my Soul-Detection Charm. Look.” She pulled away from George and waved her wand over herself, saying _“Atma Prakata.”_ The blue and silver aura returned again.

“Wow, snazzy,” Fred spoke up. “So we’re getting a look at your soul, there?”

“Er, a representation of it, I guess. Ooh, I should check—what colour sparks do you make with your wands?”

“Uh, whatever colour we want?” said Fred.

“Yeah, have you seen our fireworks?” George added.

“No, I mean when you first got them.”

“Oh, mostly orange,” he answered.

“Matched our hair pretty well,” said Fred. “Why?”

“Because I’m pretty sure these auras show up the same colour.” She cast the spell on each of the Twins in turn, and they shivered under its effect. For both of them, the dominant colour did, indeed, match their hair, but there were subtle differences. Fred’s aura had large swirls of white mixed in, and the orange part had flickers of red and yellow that made it look like a flame. George’s aura was more subdued, with small swirls of brown and grey and flecks of bright blue that matched her own blue streaks.

“Whoa, that’s creepy,” Fred said. “How’d you pack the feeling of Mum calling us out for a prank into a spell like that?”

“It does lay your soul bare, in a sense,” Hermione said. “I had to make it go into a lot more detail than an ordinary Presence-Detecting Spell to make it able to detect horcruxes. It’s understandable that it would make you uncomfortable.”

George pulled her closer and kissed her. “Well, if it’s matching wand colours, it must be doing something,” he said. “It looks like you’ve got it.”

Harry shifted his feet uncomfortably. “So…if you cast it on me…” he said.

“It should show the horcrux, yes,” Hermione said soberly. “Did you want to see it? We don’t have to do it now, but I’ll probably have to eventually.”

“No, just…just get it over with,” he said.

“Alright, then.” She pointed her wand at Harry and said, _“Atma Prakata.”_

Hermione, George, and Fred gasped and recoiled in horror when they saw it. It wasn’t from the visual image. Rather, it was from the visceral sense of _wrongness_ that surrounded him—the sort of feeling that seemed to accompany truly dark magic. Hermione suspected most wizards never came into contact with enough dark magic of this calibre to notice, but the pattern was plain as day. Objectively, all she saw was swirls of colour around Harry, but she was hit with the emotional impact as if she were seeing her best friend with a deep, gangrenous wound in his head.

Harry’s aura was a bright, roiling red and gold, blazing like fire and full of life—not the Gryffindor House colours, but the exact hues of Fawkes’s plumage when he was in Dumbledore’s office. There was another colour, too. Unlike a candle flame, which might be blue at its base, Harry’s aura contained green—a faint outline of green light was visible, clinging to his skin. But on his head, the colours were marred by an ugly black scar that seemed to penetrate into his skull.

The spectral scar was larger than his real one and more jagged—a lightning-shaped carving that extended up into his hairline and down below his eyebrow and emitted wisps of black mist around it. The green fringe surrounded the borders of the scar, seeming to press in against it, and his right eye, where it drew nearest, glowed a bright green.

“Bloody hell,” Fred muttered.

“Is it that bad?” Harry said worriedly.

“Check the mirror,” Hermione said in a haunted tone. She maintained the spell while Harry stepped into the bathroom and looked in the mirror.

“AH! Hell!” he shouted, jumping back against the wall. “Turn it off!” Hermione put her wand down, and the glow vanished. Harry looked like he might be sick, but he kept it together, leaning over the sink with his head in his hands. “That…that’s really been in my head my whole _life_?” he sputtered.

“Since you were fifteen months old, sorry,” Hermione said. She ventured closer to reach out to him, but he smacked her hand away.

“Don’t touch me!” he shouted.

“Harry—”

“No! How can you—? How can you stand to touch me after that?”

“Because it doesn’t change anything. _You_ haven’t changed, Harry.”

“She’s got you there,” Fred called. “You’re still the same specky git you always were.”

“Shut _up!_ ”

“Harry, calm down,” Hermione said.

He turned to look up at her. “Easy for you to say, Hermione. You’re not the one with a piece of V-You-Know-Who in your head.”

Hermione flinched a little. “But we already knew about that,” she said.

“But _seeing_ it like that…” He coughed and looked like he might be sick again. “I feel…I feel _defiled_.”

“I understand—” she started, but stopped when he glared at her. “Okay, I can’t understand, but I can empathise. I told you the spell lays your soul bare—in your case, yours and the horcrux’s. It makes the aura of evil surrounding it impossible to ignore where it’s normally hidden. But you saw your own colours, too. You’re a good person, Harry. And the horcrux is so well contained that it’s not affected you at all, let alone us.”

“How can you know that?” he demanded.

“‘Cause if it did, you’d have turned evil years ago, mate,” George piped up.

Harry was silent for a minute. When he didn’t respond, Hermione tried again: “He’s right, you know. You know what the diary did to Ginny when she had it. You saw how the ring made Dumbledore touch it even though he knew it was evil. If that horcrux was influencing you, we would have noticed a long time ago.”

He sighed and lowered his head. “But what about getting it out?” he mumbled.

“I’m going to try.”

“Do you _really_ think you can do that?” he grumbled.

“Well, I can actually _see_ it, now,” she said. “That’s a good sign.”

“Hey! Buck up, Harry!” Fred said, giving him a shove in the shoulder. “You’re not allowed to start moping around.”

 _“Geroff!”_ he grunted.

The Twins picked him up by his arms and carried him to the makeshift dining room. Harry fought, but he started to cheer up soon enough. “You’ve got to trust Hermione,” George agreed. “If anyone can outwit You-Know-Who, it’s her.”

“Fine,” he said, smiling a little. “I just wish I had some Firewhisky so I could forget what I just saw.”

Hermione snorted. “At least you’d have the option. I actually have to _do_ something about it.”

“So what’s next?” asked George. “You start working on some arcane ritual?”

“Not yet, George. I have some other tests to run. First, we should probably look at one of the other horcruxes we’ve got locked up.”

After a few minutes’ preparation, Hermione unsealed one of her magically-welded boxes and levitated out Salazar Slytherin’s locket. There was no doubt _that_ what a horcrux even without the spell. They could feel the dark aura around it on their own, but with the spell, it was ten times worse. Visually, the horcrux also looked like nothing more than a cloud of black mist swirling around the locket. The dark feeling it induced, however, was different. This was a piece of a soul in isolation—something not meant to be divided that had unnaturally been torn to bits, yet still lived. She recoiled from it as if from something maimed and deformed. It was like…like seeing a snake cut in half, but both pieces still writhing on the ground.

“Okay, that’s all I need to see of that,” she said, cutting off the spell quickly. “Let’s try a few other things. I probably should have done a few other tests.”

She’d only tested the spell on humans and horcruxes so far, so she thought to try a few controls. Rock? No aura. Plant? No aura. Magical artifact (Harry’s broom)? No aura. Animal? Problem.

Hermione tried the spell on a passing squirrel, and she was dismayed to find that it did produce an aura around it. It was pale and ghostly, less substantial than she got from a human—probably even fainter than the light from _Homenum Revelio_ cast on a human, but it was there. Had she got the spell wrong? But the aura was fainter around an animal, not identical. Or was it because it wasn’t a magical animal? Fred and George still had a couple of Pygmy Puffs floating around. Hermione tested one of them and saw the same ghostly aura as she did around the squirrel.

Seeing that the light was fainter, though, she had to wonder if she’d missed something with the negative test. She tried all of them again, this time sealing off a room and casting the spell in complete darkness. Rock? No aura. Plant? No aura. Harry’s broom? No aura. Animal? As well as they had cleaned the building, there were still mice and cockroaches and the like to be found around there. She found a cockroach and tested it in a dark room. The spell produced a glow around it—faint, barely visible even in pitch black, but still there.

Something was definitely wrong. If a _cockroach_ had a soul, she was fundamentally misunderstanding what she was looking at. Could it be that witches and wizards registered differently from everything else? Or was it something more complicated. No, there was nothing for it. She needed to test a muggle.

 

#

 

“I don’t like you taking over another operation,” Kingsley said. “You know you’re not supposed to be a combat unit.”

“Says the man who thinks Hermione is one of our strongest fighters,” George pointed out.

Kingsley gave him a stern look: “That doesn’t change the fact that you have other duties. I don’t know all the details of what you’re doing here, but I know your research is essential to the war effort, Hermione.”

“It’s my research that’s why I’m doing this,” she said. “I need to do some tests on a muggle—non-invasive, of course,” she added, not mentioning that having your soul scanned could feel quite invasive. “This is the easiest way. I could test it on a muggle on the street and Confund them, but if my spell is doing what I’m worried it’s doing, I’ll need a long session with them to work out the bugs. Anyway, it’s a simple muggle-born relocation. We’ll take the train to Calais and be back in an afternoon.”

Harry groaned, “Don’t jinx it, Hermione. When is anything we do simple?”

“Getting the school records was pretty simple.”

“Harry is right, Hermione,” Kingsley said. “We’ve already had close calls with these relocations, and it’s not at all simple to convince muggle parents of magic without casting any spells.”

“Okay, I can see that,” she admitted. “We’ll be careful. But I really do need to talk to a muggle who’s privy to magic.”

Kingsley sighed: “If you must.”

 

#

 

Hermione walked up to the door of the muggle house with the three boys behind her. It was a typical cookie-cutter house in Maidstone that could have belonged to anyone in the muggle world. They’d deliberately chosen the address on the list closest to the Eurostar station in Ashford for speed’s sake. It was only a twenty mile drive to the station, and from there, they could be in Calais in an hour or so. It was dusk, so they would have cover if need be, but they were already prepared with tickets, luggage, and other essentials.

She rang the bell, and a minute later, a woman opened the door. She was shorter than Hermione and about a decade older, and was clearly taken aback by finding _four_ people on her doorstep at dinnertime. “May I help you?” she asked hesitantly.

“Good evening, ma’am,” Hermione said. “May I ask, is there a Madeline Clarke living here?”

Mrs. Clarke, presumably, gave an unconscious glance over her shoulder. “Yes, why?” she asked.

“Then it is my unfortunate duty to inform you that your family has been found to be a target of a terrorist plot.”

“What?” Mrs. Clarke gasped. “But how—is…is this some kind of _joke?_ ”

“No, I’m afraid not, Mrs. Clarke.”

“But…but that’s absurd! Terrorists? We don’t have any connections in government, no family in the military—”

“Honey, is something wrong?” a sandy-haired man came up beside her.

Mrs. Clarke lowered her voice: “This _girl_ is trying to tell us there are terrorists after us.”

Mr. Clarke stared at them with a suspicious look. “Is this some kind of scam?” he demanded. “You’re not police.” They were in street clothes, after all, and the oldest of them were only nineteen.

“No, Mr. Clarke, I’m talking about a very different kind of terrorists than you are,” Hermione said. “I’ll have to ask you to bear with me. This is going to be difficult, but I promise I’m telling the truth.” She nodded to the boys, who clustered around her, blocking the view from the street, and she knelt down, placing her handbag on the porch. She reached inside, making a show of sticking her arm farther in than the bottom ought to be, and to the couple’s growing astonishment, she pulled out a five-foot piece of carved wood, which was revealed to be a polished, stylised broomstick.

“H-h-how…?” said an open mouthed Mr. Clarke.

“Could I ask you to take a few steps back?” Hermione said. “This isn’t something we want seen in public.”

The couple took several uneasy steps back into their living room. Hermione could see a pair of small children crowding behind them with wide eyes. She dropped Harry’s Firebolt, and its Auto-Hover Charm kicked in so that it gracefully righted itself and hovered at waist height. “This is a magic broomstick,” she said. “And I’m sorry to say that there are evil wizards after your daughter.”

Mr. and Mrs. Clarke, though horrified, didn’t have any trouble inviting the four magicals into their house after that display. They stared at the hovering broom warily, and with Harry’s permission, they touched it and ran their hands all around it, checking for wires. (“And how could there be?” Harry insisted. “It’s _your_ house.”) They even tested their weight on it and were surprised to find that it held.

It took a fair amount of convincing for them to accept that little Madeline, a normal-looking seven-year-old girl in strawberry-blond pigtails, was a witch, but this was where it was good to have two muggle-raised magicals there to talk to them. Hermione and Harry recounted to them all the times they had done accidental magic as children, and the Clarkes were forced to accept the similarities to incidents they had seen. Privately, Hermione and Harry both resolved to keep an eye on four-year-old Jeffrey. He was probably too young to do accidental magic, but they knew he could very well be a wizard.

Madeline was initially thrilled to be a witch once she understood what it meant, but her excitement was quickly dampened when Hermione informed them of the evil wizards in the world, and the civil war that was targeting magical children born to normals, like Madeline. The family was in danger, they said, and the options were to confine them in a _Fidelius_ -protected safe-house or to get them to France and under the French Ministry’s protection—not a sure thing, but You-Know-Who wouldn’t want to provoke another country while he was still putting out brushfires at home.

Unsurprisingly, the Clarkes chose France.

“You don’t need to worry,” Hermione assured them. “You can pack your bags, drive to the train station in Ashford, and take the Eurostar to Calais, and there won’t be any trouble. We’ll provide you with the means to support yourselves and contact you when it’s safe to come back.”

“But if all this is true, why are you going to all this trouble,” Mr. Clarke protested. “Why don’t you just magic us over there?”

Fred fielded that one: “Because the Ministry puts a Trace on all magical kids.”

“More precisely from the first time they perform accidental magic until their seventeenth birthday,” Hermione clarified. She’d thought it over and had decided the only way it could work as she understood it was for it to be piggybacked on the magic of the Book and Quill at Hogwarts on the national rune stone network.

“Right. It doesn’t track them everywhere, mind. It just tells when magic is done around them,” he said.

“So if we used spells to move you, the Death Eaters would know it,” George continued. “And the spells can’t go across international borders. There’s treaties and stuff. We have to use muggle methods they won’t notice.”

Thankfully, they accepted that. This whole thing was an enormous shock to them, but like Hermione’s own parents years ago, they found it was surprisingly easy to accept the extraordinary when it was staring them in the face. They began packing their bags feverishly, arguing about what to take as they were told to travel light.

Through all of this, though, everyone paid little mind to an increasingly distraught Jeffrey. The little boy didn’t fully comprehend what was going on, but he was slowly coming to understand that they would have to leave home, probably for a long time, and he was not happy about it. His mother tried to console him, but she had little luck in stopping him from building up to a full-blown tantrum.

 _“I don’ wanna go!”_ the boy bawled helplessly.

“I know, Jeffy,” Mrs. Clarke said, crouching down and holding his face, “but we have to go so the bad men don’t get us. It’ll be okay. It’ll be just like a holiday,” she said cheerfully.

 _“Nooooo!”_ he cried.

“Calm down, Jeffy. You’ll like it there. You’ll get to see the Eiffel Tower and go to Euro Disney and everything.”

_“I DON’ WANNA GOOOOO!”_

There was a faint buzz in the air, the lights flickered, and a moment later, there was a loud _SLAM!_ as every door in the house, external and internal, slammed shut and locked itself. Madeline screamed.

Hermione’s face turned white as chalk. “Oh no,” she breathed.

“What?” Mrs. Clarke said worriedly.

“Accidental magic! They’ll have detected that!” She sprang into action and sprinted to the stairs, shouting, “Change of plans! We have to leave _now!_ Everyone move!”

Mr. Clarke had been locked in the master bedroom. Hermione didn’t waste time trying to undo whatever unstructured magic the distraught child had done and just cast, _“Atithikhula!”_ The door sheared clean off its hinges with a shower of sparks.

“Miss Granger? What’s going on?” Mr. Clarke said.

“Your son just did magic. We have to get out of here before the bad guys notice.”

“What? Jeffrey?”

“Yes!” She opened her handbag and pointed her wand at the mostly full suitcase. _“Pack!”_ The suitcase snapped shut and flew through the air, distorting in impossible ways to fit into her bag. “The kids’ stuff?” she said. Mr. Clarke pointed to another already close suitcase, and she packed that away as well. “That’ll have to do,” she said. “ID’s, cash, credit cards, medications?”

“Jennifer’s overnight bag. Downstairs.”

“Good. Let’s go.” She sprinted back down the stairs to find Mrs. Clarke holding an unconscious Jeffrey in her arms with Madeline clinging to her legs. “What did you do?” she asked.

“Stuffed a Fainting Fancy in his mouth,” Fred said.

“Fred! You’ve never tested those on anyone younger than eleven!”

“Half of one,” he defended himself. “And I’ve got the antidote here.”

“Ugh. Fine. We have to go.” She summoned the other brooms from her handbag. They _had_ had the presence of mind (with Kingsley’s help) to bring four brooms on this mission, just in case. They couldn’t Apparate to a more favourable location from here because Harry had never been to Dover to do it, and they couldn’t be sure Dobby would be able to get through to them since the Death Eaters could block him. They had to fly for it. Twenty miles from Ashford to Dover, and another twenty across the Channel. Half an hour’s flight at most, even with the brooms weighed down. It was amazing how much faster things were when you didn’t have to worry about roads and train schedules. But even then, would they have enough time?

She handed the brooms out, and Harry said, “You’ll have to split up. One of you with one of us.”

“You two take the kids,” Hermione pointed at the Twins.

“Us?” the said in surprise.

“You’re the ones with actual experience with little kids.”

“When we were ten,” they said in unison. But they still took the kids, sitting them in front of them on the brooms and wrapping their long arms around them. They used Sticking Charms to hold them in place.

Mr. and Mrs. Clarke hesitated, but joined the remaining two magicals, Mr. Clarke with Harry (which was good because he had the most powerful broom to handle the weight), and Mrs. Clarke with Hermione.

There was a fast, rapping knock on the door. “Open up! Uh, Police!”

Hermione, Harry, and the Twins froze and stared at each other. There was absolutely no reason for the police to be here.

“Climb on behind me and hold on,” Hermione whispered. The woman did, surprised to find that the broomstick handle felt like a bicycle seat to sit on, and wrapped her arms around her waist. Hermione pointed at Harry and jabbed her wand at the door. He nodded, getting the message. Hermione silently cast, _Calcifrango_ , loosening the brickwork around the door.

“NOW!”

_“Bombarda!”_

“But the police—” Mrs. Clarke started to say, but there was an almighty _BANG!_ And half the front wall was blasted outward, knocking the two probably-Death Eaters to the ground.

 _“Go! Go! Go!”_ someone yelled. Maybe it was all of them. The four broomsticks zoomed out the opening in the wall and into the night air, where they raced away from the house at top speed. There were screams as dark spells whizzed by them, but they went wide. Probably that was when the danger finally sunk in for the family. Hermione could hear the children crying over the howling wind.

“Those…those really were the…those Death Eater wizards?” Mrs. Clarke said hollowly.

“I’m afraid so,” Hermione answered. “I’m so sorry. I knew it was possible, but accidental magic is so rare I didn’t think we had to worry about it.”

“Jeffy really did that?” she asked in horror.

“It wasn’t his fault, Mrs. Clarke. Young children can’t control their magic. And if they try to suppress it, it can hurt them. It would have been one of your children sooner or later. That’s why we came to you in they first place. I’m just sorry it didn’t work out better.”

“Hey, guys!” Harry yelled. “If I know You-Know-Who, they’ll be on us again before we hit Dover!”

“And they might’ve seen our faces,” Fred pointed out.

“They _must_ _’ve_ seen our hair,” George added.

“Call for backup!” Hermione shouted back. “This could get bad.”

“Backup?” Mrs. Clarke asked.

“There are more than the four of us, Mrs. Clarke. Listen, I’m going to need my hands free. I want you to put your hands behind mine, and keep the broom pointed forwards.”

“O-okay,” she said. She released her grip from around Hermione’s waist and unsteadily took hold of the shaft.

When Hermione was sure she wouldn’t crash the broom, she let go and tapped out a message to Kingsley on her ring: _FLYING ASHFORD 2 DOVER DE_ _’S HERE HELP._ “Harry, if they see you—” she called.

“If they see _any_ of us!” he yelled back. It was true. Even if they hadn’t seen him, they knew whom he’d last been seen with and react accordingly.

“Our best chance is we took them by surprise,” George said. “It’ll take them time to gather the troops.”

 _Not enough time_ , Hermione thought.

Harry motioned for them to fly higher, where they could get fractionally more speed out of the brooms in the thinner air. They were already higher than Hermione had ever flown—maybe even higher than Harry had flown—high enough that she kept an eye out for low-flying aeroplanes.

But the threat wasn’t above. Two minutes at most after they flew screaming away from Ashford, a dozen dark-robed figures on brooms rose through the twilit air in front of them, invisible until they were nearly on top of them. Of course, the best way to intercept a broom in flight was to Apparate ahead of them and come at them from below.

 _“SCATTER!”_ Harry screamed, and his broom veered off to one side. Hermione followed his lead. For her part, she cast Bubble-Head Charms on herself and Mrs. Clarke and steered to climb higher. Green curses flew by them from below, and never had she been so thankful for the poor aiming capability of wands. Hmm, a device to turn a wand into a sniper weapon…

No, she couldn’t get distracted. This wasn’t sustainable. Her broom was slower with two people on it, and she didn’t know how high it could fly. She thought about what little she knew about aerial combat. You had to get behind your enemy was about all she could think of. “I don’t suppose you know anything about dogfighting?” she asked Mrs. Clarke.

“What? _Me?_ ” the woman said.

 _Never mind_ , she thought. She knew a few basic manoeuvres by name, but she had no clue how they were used, and she was sure brooms didn’t handle at all like fighter jets anyway. _Keep moving. Don_ _’t give them a stationary target._ She weaved back and forth as erratically as she could manage. _Find cover._ There were patchy clouds a couple thousand feet above them. If she could reach those…

 _“AHH!”_ She reeled as a Killing Curse flashed past them mere feet away. The feeling of dark magic whooshing by close enough to notice, but not enough to react—not without practice, anyway. _Need cover!_ _“Nubes Minuta!”_ She turned the broom at an angle and cast her wall of fog over a broad swath of the air parallel to their flight. It wasn’t much, but it would hopefully hide their movements for the few seconds she needed. She weaved a bit more and pointed the broom at the nearest cloud. “Aim there!” she ordered Mrs. Clarke, pointing with her wand.

Hermione twitched her wrist to open her spring-loaded buckler against dark curses and looked over her shoulder, readying herself.

The Death Eaters emerging from the cloud behind them, and she cast fast. She should have brought some extra carbon for this, but this would have to do. She ran her wand along the edge of her buckler and turned the outer fraction of an inch of the carbon nanotube plates into ultrafine fibres. They were thinner than usual to conserve material, not strong enough to cut someone to ribbons, but strong enough to tangle them up. The fibres spun away like invisible kite string, and she used a charm to aim them at the Death Eaters.

Moments later, the Death Eaters stopped casting curses and slowed in midair, swatting at the threads that now ensnared them like far nastier spiderwebs. Moments later, Hermione and Mrs. Clarke were in the cloud. They were safe, at least for the moment.

Hermione levelled the broom out and took a moment to catch her breath. They had to be a good ten miles from the coast, still, and she had no illusions that they wouldn’t have to fight any other Death Eaters. But with luck, she might be able to hit them from above and behind from here. It wouldn’t be easy. Brooms were charmed against most jinxes and hexes, so she wouldn’t be able to take out the brooms themselves without high-powered curses. Likewise, neither would the Death Eaters, but that mattered little when they had no compunctions about using the Killing Curse.

Hermione turned back and dove out of the cloud behind where the Death Eaters were, but she was off. They were nearly on top of them, and the Death Eaters were ready, already turning in their direction. They’d never be able to survive that crossfire. Hermione acted on instinct. Shield raised in front of her face, she charged them.

 _Strobos!_ she cast. A Strobe Light Charm lit up the sky, and the Death Eaters shouted in surprise. She swerved before they could get their bearings again, then dodged the blind curse the Death Eater on her right threw at her and cast _Carnifex!_ at him in a wide arc as they passed. There was a crack of the curse cleaving through bone and a scream as the Death Eater fell off his broom.

Mrs. Clarke looked back over her shoulder in horror. “Did you just—”

 _DONG!_ Hermione’s shield rang like a gong despite not being metal, and one of the slats that made it up broke off as it was hit by a dark curse from the other Death Eater. She spun to face him and has horrified to see _three_ Death Eaters bearing down on them. A flash of green! She dodged, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to stay out of the line of fire for long.

And then a flurry of hexes descended from above like bolts from heaven, knocking the Death Eaters out of the way. She looked up and cheered. The cavalry was here. Angelina Johnson, Alicia Spinnet, and Katie Bell were speeding in on their top-shelf brooms, diving into battle like a squadron of avenging angels.

“Thank Merlin!” Hermione shouted to them while she cast a string of hexes at the nearest Death Eater. The three girls split off, two of them swooping in to make a pincer around the enemy fliers while Katie flew up along side her.

“Heard you could use some help,” she called.

“Could we ever! We have to help Harry and the Twins!”

The rest of the fight was laid out like a triangle speeding through the air. Flashes of light marked where the skirmishes were taking place. Harry seemed to be mostly left alone. The Twins were having a rough time of it, but from the lights she saw peppering the sky, another trio of brooms had joined the fight on the side of the Order. Faced with equal numbers, now, and superior fliers, the Death Eaters began to back away. Hermione and Katie flew into the fray, taking potshots at any black robe that got too close. She was stunned when she came close enough to see the other newcomers: Cedric Diggory, Oliver Wood, and Rebecca Gamp, all fighting fiercely to get them through the attackers.

There was just enough light that she could see the coast now: the edge of the land where the Cliffs of Dover stood, only a couple miles distant. Only ten or twelve miles to French airspace. If they could get there, the Death Eaters would be much leerier about following, and the Clarkes could request asylum.

Their luck didn’t hold. A sudden gust of wind hit them, so powerful that it sent all of the riders tumbling. Mrs. Clarke clung to Hermione’s waist. A scream rang out that she recognised as Harry’s followed shortly after by several others, and when she righted herself, she saw why.

It was You-Know-Who himself, the Dark Lord, his loose black robe billowing in the gale, flying without the aid of any broomstick.

“That’s impossible,” Hermione breathed.

“What?” Mrs. Clarke said.

But there was no time to answer. You-Know-Who was doing _something_ , and it was putting him at the centre of a storm. The wind howled, rain lashed, and lightning exploded around them. How much power _was_ that? The squall was tiny—a couple hundred yards wide at most, just enough to keep Harry trapped—but the amount of force it delivered must be astronomical. Chaos surrounded them.

_“Harry!”_

_“It’s him!”_

_“Run!”_

_“Help him!”_

Cedric pulled back, unable to keep control with his prosthetic arm. A flash of lightning struck so close that Hermione was momentarily blinded and deafened. A gust of wind knocked Angelina off her broom.

 _“ANGIE!”_ Fred screamed and dove after his girlfriend.

Harry was dodging You-Know-Who’s curses, blocking some of them by hitting them in flight better than even Hermione thought he could aim. But there was no way his luck could hold out for long. Hermione created more carbon nanofibres, thicker this time—thick enough to cut, directing them at You-Know-Who. The Dark Lord flailed for a moment—a split second that gave Harry time to dive, piling on the speed his _Firebolt_ was so famous for. Then You-Know-Who cast a fire charm and burning them out of the air instantly.

“Uh oh,” Hermione said.

You-Know-Who didn’t come for her. Instead, the wind slammed into her and Mrs. Clarke, hitting hard from all sides.

The greatest storm in Hermione’s lifetime was the Great Storm of 1987, which recorded sustained winds of 85 miles per hour over much of southern Britain. Good brooms could fly faster than this and thus could hold up to such forces, but she was certain this was worse than that storm, and brooms were _not_ intended take this in a crosswind.

The broomstick snapped in two.

Hermione screamed as she and Mrs. Clarke went tumbling away from each other. Wind and rain still lashed at her as she spun through the air, losing all orientation. She caught a glimpse of the woman spinning away, still stuck to the back half of the broomstick.

 _Accio!_ Hermione thought, and she and Mrs. Clarke flew towards each other. The impact knocked the wind out of both of them, but Hermione wrapped her arms around her and got firm grip. Harry was still diving, trying to reach them, but it was no good. His broom couldn’t support four people, and even if it could, it would slow him down fatally. As much as she hated to admit it, she was useless to him like this.

When she tried to twist herself a bit, she could _feel_ the resistance to her magic, blocking her from Apparating with the relative velocity, giving her a crude sense of her airspeed. She couldn’t reach the ground safely, and she couldn’t afford to wait to fall close enough to use _Arresto Momentum_. The Death Eaters would pick her off. Plan C, then. “Breathe out!” she yelled to the Mrs. Clarke.

“What?!”

She took advantage of the woman’s exhalation to put her self study to good use. She Apparated them ten thousand feet straight up.

The sudden change in air pressure made Hermione’s ears pop painfully, and she coughed as the air was ripped from her lungs. But the air was clear. They were above the storm—above the _clouds_.

They were still falling.

Mrs. Clarke was still screaming. It took Hermione a moment to realise she was, too. She could Apparate them vertically again, but that was risky, and it would be riskier getting them down to the ground, much less getting to the French side of the border.

 _“What are you doing?!”_ Mrs Clarke cried, clinging to her.

“Saving our arses!” What could she do? Apparating across the border would trip the rune stone networks of both countries could get her in legitimate trouble with the French Ministry under various treaties. From there, it was a short step to being handed over to You-Know-Who’s puppet Ministry. Kingsley had made very certain she understood that. She couldn’t see where the border was. And she was fresh out of brooms. She could just make out the night lights of Calais on the horizon. Could she eyeball it?

She’d have to try. She picked a spot that looked to be a quarter of the way across the Channel and several thousand feet higher, and with a great effort, she Apparated again.

Still falling, she hoped she’d judged correctly. Using a Wind Charm to control their fall, Hermione quickly surveyed the horizon. They were over the open water, clearly still on the English side. She didn’t know how much further she could go. Could they land in the water and swim for it? Or could she conjure a boat? It didn’t look like they had much other choice.

She let them fall. It took about a minute to fall from that height at terminal velocity. This was especially difficult because of the low light and only having the waves to gauge her altitude.

Mrs. Clarke began to panic. “Stop! Stop! You have to stop!” she cried, pounding on Hermione’s back.

Hermione fired red sparks of distress down towards the water, exploding like a firework near the surface. If the Death Eaters were close enough to home in on it, they were doomed, anyway. A thousand feet, probably. She used the Wind Charm to slow their descent, then pulled her second wand and fired another spark. Too fast. Too close. _“Arresto Momentum!”_ she shouted, and they slowed further. They were down to a safe speed, dropping the last hundred feet to the water, when Hermione felt a yank on her robes and jerked upward. She nearly lost her hold on Mrs. Clarke, but she held fast. To her astonishment, a rope appeared in their face. They both grabbed it. They looked up and saw a massive winged form flying overhead, pulling the rope along: an Abraxan.

The two women were pulled up by the rope onto a platform on the back of the elephantine winged horse, where they tumbled to the deck, barely able to grab the handholds to stay themselves against the wind. Mrs. Clarke was frozen with shock, but Hermione was alert at once, ready to see whether their rescuers were friend or foe.

“Miss Granger, I am very ‘appy to see you are alright,” a French-accented voice said.

Hermione’s eyes widened. _“Monsieur et Madame Delacour?”_ she said.

Fleur’s parents nodded and helped her into the vaguely chair-like harness alongside them. “ _Oui_ , Fleur sent a message zat you needed ‘elp,” Mr. Delacour said. “Are zere ozzers?”

Fleur. Harry’s ring connected to Bill and Fleur. “Yes, but…” She surveyed the white cliffs in front of them, all she could see of the English coast in the fading light. “But they’ll be miles away by now. We…we agreed to meet on the breakwater at Calais if we got separated.”

Mr. Delacour sighed. “Very well,” he said. _“Tourne-la autour.”_

Mrs. Delacour pulled on the reigns, and the great beast turned in midair, flying towards the French coast.

“My family!” Mrs. Clarke said. She tried to leap to her feet.

Hermione grabbed her arm and held her so she wouldn’t be blown off the Abraxan. “If they made it, they’ll meet us at Calais,” she said.

“If they made it?!”

“There’s nothing we can do from here,” she insisted. “I know the boys. They’re good at this. All of them are much better fliers than I am.”

The woman slumped. Hermione could understand how powerless she was feeling.

About twenty minutes after they turned around, they landed on the breakwater at Calais, Mr. and Mrs. Delacour and Hermione all working together to keep the Abraxan concealed. It had been a loaner from Beauxbatons, and Madame Maxime would be around to pick it up later.

No one was there when they landed, and Hermione’s heart sank into her stomach. The brooms were faster than the Abraxan. Had something happened to them? To _all_ of them? It was dark enough now that she couldn’t see anyone approach until they were nearly on top of them. When three brooms came in for a landing, she readied her wand, but it was Fred, flanked by Katie and Alicia. He landed on the breakwater heavily and stumbled as his broom gave out from under him. Angelina was clinging to his back, and in front of him, he held the still-unconscious four-year-old boy.

“Jeffrey!” Mrs. Clarke cried. She ran to him and caught him up in her arms, hugging him close. Fred fished in his pockets for the antidote to the Fainting Fancy to wake him up.

“Fred! Thank God you’re alright,” Hermione said. “Where’s George? And Harry?”

“Dunno,” he grunted. “We got separated. Last I saw, Harry was running from You-Know-Who. We had too much dead weight to help—no offence, Ange. We barely got out of there…Is that Fleur’s parents?”

Hermione nodded absently. She bit her lip, watching the sky for any sign of her best friend and her boyfriend. It was another few minutes before Mrs. Delacour spotted the next group. Just two brooms descended and landed on the breakwater this time. George was on one, looking shell-shocked, holding a crying Madeline to his chest. He set her gently on the ground, and she rejoined her mother. On the other broom was Cedric, who was holding Rebecca Gamp up to his chest with his prosthetic arm. He hit the ground hard, and she tumbled off onto the gravel, groaning. Her robes were torn, and she was bleeding from multiple gashes.

“Rebecca!” Hermione rushed to the girl’s side, quickly followed by Alicia. They did they best to bind up her wounds, but they could tell she would need a hospital. Looking lower, they saw she had large splinters in her thighs. She was lucky they hadn’t hit a major artery. “What happened?” Hermione asked as they worked.

“Took a few curses, and her broom got blown up right under her,” Cedric answered. His hands were shaking, even his artificial one. “Barely caught her before she fell to the ground.”

George’s mouth worked for a minute, no sound coming out. “Oliver’s dead,” he said.

The rest of the former Gryffindor Quidditch team reacted in horror.

_“What?”_

_“No!”_

_“How?”_

“Killing curse. He—all those years dodging Bludgers, and it still wasn’t enough.”

“Oh, George.” Once Hermione was sure Rebecca was stable, she stood and hugged him tight. “I’m sorry,” she muttered. “What…what’s the situation?”

“Two Death Eaters dead for sure including the one you got,” he said. “Another one fell off his broom, but he still had his wand. Oliver…And I don’t know where Harry is. Didn’t see him after he dove away from You-Know-Who.”

“And my husband?” Mrs. Clarke asked.

“Still with Harry last I saw them.”

Hermione shook as she stood, watching the skies again as she tried not to cry. She had to believe Harry was still okay. If You-Know-Who got him, all of this was for nothing. She fidgeted, itching for something to do—something to convince herself things were still close to fine. She turned around. _Keep doing what you came here to do,_ she thought. It was the only thing she could think of right now.

“Excuse me, Mrs. Clarke?” she said. “There’s something I need to do while you’re here. Something that will help us fight the man who did this.” The muggle woman looked at her in confusion. “I need to get a special magical scan of you. That’s all.”

“What for?”

“I can’t tell you the details. A baseline for comparison in a magical experiment I’m doing. It’s not dangerous or harmful, but it _is_ important. I was hoping to have more time, but this will have to do.”

Mrs. Clarke looked around at the assembled faces. Most of them were bemused, but Fred and George nodded to her in agreement. She sighed and stepped forward. “Alright,” she said.

“Fred? George?” Hermione asked. The Twins stepped around her, again shielding her from the view of most of the crowd. “Now, this may be a little uncomfortable,” she said. She waved her wand over the woman and whispered, _“Atma Prakata.”_

Mrs. Clarke’s sucked in a breath and stared as though transfixed. Then, her aura appeared, as bright and colourful as any witch’s or wizard’s. The predominant colour for her was amber, with swirls of earth tones mixed in. The light moved calmly, not roiling with fear or anger. This was her soul stripped bare of those transient things so that only her true nature showed through. Like showing the climate, and not the weather. She could probably detect depression, but not sadness; sociopathy, but not hate. At her best guess, Mrs. Clarke seemed mentally healthy.

Hermione lowered her wand. That answered that. Her whole plan to study a muggle’s aura in detail was moot. It was the same as a witch’s. She was definitely detecting soul, in some respect, not magic. She’d have to figure out the rest on her own.

“What _was_ that?” Mrs. Clarke asked, shrinking back.

“Probably best if you don’t know, but I promise I didn’t do anything to you. I just—”

She was interrupted by a light approaching from across the water, purest silver and coming at them fast. She knew she ought to raise her wand to defend herself from a potential attack, but she felt so calm upon seeing the light that she couldn’t bring herself to do it. A moment later, she understood why, and paradoxically, her anxiety spiked. It was a Patronus. That wasn’t what she was expecting. Moments later, a shining, silver stag stood before them. It opened its mouth and spoke with Harry’s voice.

 _Hermione, I_ _’m back at our headquarters. I reckon if you’re not in a safe place by now, it doesn’t matter. I’m okay, mostly, but…Mr. Clarke, he—didn’t make it. We were hit by lightning by You-Know-Who. He got the full force of it because he was behind me. I would have come to you but I lost the_ Firebolt _. It was on fire, and I barely made it to the ground in one piece. You-Know-Who was still there, and I had to Apparate away. I hope you_ _’re okay. Tell Mrs. Clarke I’m sorry, will you?_

The stag vanished, and Hermione turned, ashen faced, to Mrs. Clarke. The woman stood stock-still, staring at her, tears running down her face and her two sobbing children clinging to her legs. “ _You_ …” she cried, in anguish more than fury. “You said you’d keep us _safe!_ ” She stumbled forward, but Mrs. Delacour was there by her side, gently holding her there.

Hermione’s voice wouldn’t work for a minute. All she could manage was, “I know.”

“You said you were _protecting_ us from them!” she wailed. “Your friend didn’t even come back to us! He left him—”

“No!” Hermione snapped, surprising even herself with how angry she sounded. “Don’t you dare blame Harry for this. I’m the one who asked him to take on this mission when we normally wouldn’t. That’s on _me_.” _And that when Harry is supposed to be the battlefield commander_ , her mind supplied. “Look…if we hadn’t come to you, one of your children would have done accidental magic sooner or later, and you’d _all_ be dead. If we’d sent someone else, there’s a good chance one of your children would’ve still done magic, and it might have gone better or worse But that doesn’t change the fact that _I_ should’ve known that You-Know—that evil wizard would come in person if he found out Harry was there.”

“Not just you, Hermione,” George said. “All of us. _Including_ Harry.”

“Fine,” she grumbled. “But _I_ made the call that this mission needed to be done, and needed to be done this way, for reasons…that in retrospect, seem pretty thin. If you want to be angry as someone, be angry at me.”

Mrs. Clarke stared at her. Hermoine braced herself, preparing for her to shout and scream at her. She’d defend herself if she had to, but she wouldn’t stop her from venting at her if it would help her at all. But instead, the woman lowered her head and wouldn’t even look at her. Just…just _go_ ,” she said.

Hermione nodded. “Alright.” She unloaded their luggage from their handbag, still intact. “ _Monsieur et Madame Delacour_ , could you see that they get somewhere safe?” They nodded, and she started walking along the breakwater.

“Hermione—” George said, reaching out to her. She started to brush him away, but he pulled her closer, and she let him put his arm around her.

“Let’s just go,” she muttered.

The other Order members flew back to England on brooms, going the long way around, away from Dover, to avoid any lingering Death Eaters. But Hermione, George, and Fred took a cab to the train station and took the Eurostar back to England, riding it in to Ebbsfleet before Apparating back to Nottingham, not risking the Ashford or London stations, even in the muggle world. Hermione clung to George without speaking the whole way back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You may have noticed an odd choice of wording in this chapter. I made the conscious decision not to write Voldemort’s name when the scene is written from Hermione’s perspective because she bound her tongue not to say it. It wasn’t really obvious before, but it’s hard to miss now.
> 
> Atma Prakata: based on the Hindi for “Reveal soul.”
> 
> Strobos: Greek for “act of whirling,” the origin of the word “strobe.” Credit to joshua.drake.lilly for this idea.


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Merry Christmas to all, and to all JK Rowling.
> 
> I apologise if I have misrepresented Hinduism in any way in this chapter. I tried to get the terms and concepts right using a range of sources, but Hinduism is a diverse religion with many schools of thought, and it is hard for someone who is not well-versed in it to make accurate, definitive statements.

“Now for the latest news on the movements of the Chief Death Eater,” Fred spoke into the microphone. “We can confirm for our listeners tonight that You-Know-Who was definitely sighted this week in Kent, attacking a muggle-born family, whose identities will remain secret for safety’s sake. One member of the family was killed, while three others escaped to an undisclosed location. This marks just one of several attacks by Death Eaters against muggle-born families with young children since the beginning of September. And it is with deep sadness that we inform you that Puddlemere United Keeper Oliver Wood was also killed in the incident whilst trying to protect the family. He will be deeply missed. While we do not wish to detract from this tragedy, we have more important news to give you from that incident.”

“First, the good news,” George continued. “On that very night, Harry Potter was seen engaging the Chief Death Eater in aerial combat, and he escaped unscathed.”

“Why is this good news, you ask?” said Fred. “Well, for one, it means that Harry is still out there, fighting the good fight—”

“—and for another,” said George, “it means that Harry faced You-Know-Who and escaped yet again.”

“That’s got to put a damper on the Dark Tosser’s mood doesn’t it, Raccoon?” Fred cut in.

“Indubitably, Red Fox. However, now for the not-so-good news. There are a lot of wild rumours circulating about the Chief Death Eater, and tonight, dear listeners, we can confirm one of them: You-Know-Who…can _fly_ …without a broom.”

“Yes, reports are that the Chief Death Eater was swooping around like an overgrown bat all on his own, even better than the impression that Severus Snape always makes. No broomstick in sight. Let’s go back to our arithmancy guru, Lady Archimedes, to explain the importance of this.”

Hermione leaned into her microphone and tried to sound professional, even though her heart wasn’t really in it. They were spinning this so hard to make it sound like a solid victory rather than a narrow escape. It galled her, but you couldn’t be too picky in wartime. “Thank you, Red Fox,” she said. “You-Know-Who was seen flying without a broomstick. This is a truly shocking development because it is supposed to be impossible to fly unassisted.”

“But is it, really?” asked George.

“Not precisely. You can levitate a person a few feet off the ground, or you can lift them up by their clothes. There are half a dozen spells that can do it in regular use. On the other hand, to fly under one’s power without the aid of any broomstick, creature, or other magical aide is widely considered by charms experts and arithmancers to be impossible. _However_ , this has never been arithmantically _proved_. The Unsupported Flight Conjecture is one of the great unsolved problems in arithmancy.”

“And you believe the Chief Death Eater found an answer.”

“It certainly looks that way, Raccoon, but I’m sceptical. You-Know-Who is smart, but I would have thought arithmancy of this calibre to be beyond him. If it wasn’t an outright trick, I suspect this spell was _actually_ the work of his chief arithmancer, Augustus Rookwood, which is especially worrying because it means there are probably other Death Eaters who can do this, too.”

“Now keep in mind, there’s no need to panic,” Fred jumped in. “The Death Eaters were always able to attack on brooms. This flying business is just to look scary. It doesn’t make them any more powerful than they were before.” That was an oversimplification. Without a broom, You-Know-Who was more manoeuvrable and had both his hands free, but close enough. “Lady Archimedes, do you think you could replicate this feat?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I’ve never had cause to look much into it myself. Given time I’m sure I could, but as you said, it’s really just about _looking_ impressive. I have more productive things to do with my time than Rookwood apparently does.” _Take that_ , she thought.

“Well, there you have it. No need to fear death from above.”

“At least no more than usual.”

“Yes. And that’s all we have for you tonight on Radio Free Britain. Next week’s password will be ‘Mad-Eye.’ Until then, keep each other safe. Keep faith. Good night and good luck.”

* * *

Hermione leafed through her notes trying to solve her problem—the one that was still plaguing her: the Soul-Detection Charm. She’d reacted to her mistake in Kent that had cost Mr. Clarke his life by throwing herself deeper into her work. She’d gone to the muggle house because she was worried her spell was specially distinguishing wizards in some way instead of detecting souls like it was supposed to, and if that had been the case, she would have needed a prolonged session with one of them to run more extensive tests and finally get it working right. It was _important_ to find out, and in that sense, it was arguably worth it, but it was ultimately moot. Muggles and wizards showed up the same under the charm.

She eventually had to admit that she didn’t know what the spell was doing. The way she understood the concept of a soul, animals shouldn’t show up at all. But maybe, she reasoned, she didn’t fully understand the concept. After fumbling around for a while, she admitted she didn’t have the resources she needed. She bit the bullet, left the building, disguised, and went into town.

She found a religious bookstore in the phone book and made a beeline for that one rather than the regular bookstore. An hour later, she left, feeling confident about her purchases: a Tanakh, a Septuagint, a Greek New Testament, a Vulgate just in case she needed it, and Greek and Hebrew dictionaries. _That_ should be enough, she thought.

It ought to be a simple matter to figure out exactly what was meant by the word “soul”—that word that she knew absolutely was the key because it was used in _Secrets of the Darkest Art._ However, she soon found there was a snag in that idea. There were actually _two_ words in the Bible that described what seemed to be the concept of an immortal soul: “soul” and “spirit.” And these seemed to be direct translations of the Greek _psyche_ and _pneuma_ , respectively. For example, in English, Matthew 16:26 read, _“For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?”_ And in her Greek copy, the word for “soul” was _psyche_. That was fine. However, in Luke 23:46, where “spirit” was clearly used in the same way: _“And when Jesus had cried with a loud voice, he said, Father, into thy hands I commend my spirit,”_ the Greek word was _pneuma._

The two words were subtly different on closer inspection. _Psyche_ seemed to be the narrower word, used exclusively for talking about literal souls, while _pneuma_ could also mean “breath”. And she found there _was_ some distinction between the two when she dug deeper. Hebrews 4:12 read, _“For the word of God is quick, and powerful, and sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing even to the dividing asunder of soul and spirit.” Psyches kai pnematos._

That gave her pause. If she was detecting _pneuma_ and not _psyche_ , that would be a perfectly valid reason for both humans and animals to read on the spell. But then, why did they look different? Could she be distinguishing between the two as well?

Maybe the Old Testament would give her a clue. The Hebrew _ruach_ seemed to be used in pretty much the same way as the Greek _pneuma_ , for both “spirit” and “breath”. But the Hebrew word for “soul”—that was different. The word was _nephesh_ , and it was used not just for “soul”, but also for “life” or “living creature”. _Nephesh_ could apply to animals. Not all animals—according to the dictionary, it applied to all vertebrates, including fish (despite not having literal breath), but not to insects and other invertebrates, and yet her spell still pinged on cockroaches.

It seemed, though, that the ancients did believe some animals had a degree of spiritual existence. The distinguishing feature of human beings in the Old Testament was not _nephesh,_ but _tzelem Elohim_ , “the image of God.” So in that respect, the problem wasn’t as dire as she’d thought. And the fact that the wizarding world had as close as you could come to concrete proof of the existence of souls made her put a fair amount of stock in it. But that still didn’t fully solve her problem. Her spell didn’t precisely fit any of the terms she’d looked up, and even if she _were_ detecting both _psyche_ and _pneuma_ , she shouldn’t be able to. _Atma Prakata_ was only designed to detect one thing—

Hermione froze.

“Oh, I’m an idiot,” she said.

She got the communication mirror from Harry and called to Hogwarts. “This is what I get for trying to do religious philosophy and spellcrafting at the same time,” she muttered.

Luna’s face appeared in the mirror. “Hello, Hermione,” she said. “We weren’t expecting a call from you tonight.”

“I know. Password is ‘de Gaulle.’ Something came up.”

“Is something wrong?” she asked with a frown.

“Not wrong, _per se_ ,” Hermione said. “Could you put Padma on, please? Parvati too if she’s available.”

Luna tilted her head in thought, and Hermione belatedly realised that it would sound odd to ask for both sisters on a research project. “Is there anything happening with their family?” she asked.

“No, nothing like that,” Hermione said. “I need to talk to them about one of my projects.” She hoped the pair would be able to help. She knew Parvati, at least, wasn’t all that observant from her time rooming with her, but the Patils _were_ practising Hindus.

“Okay. Can you wait a few minutes? I’ll bring them someplace more private.”

“You read my mind. Thank you, Luna.”

Luna’s face vanished, and Hermione waited. A few minutes later, the Patil Twins appeared, squeezing their faces into the field of view.

“Hi, Hermione,” they said.

“Hi, Parvati, Padma.”

“So what’s up?” Parvati asked.

Hermione sighed: “I need your help with a spell.”

Parvati gaped melodramatically. “ _You_ need _our_ help?”

“Yes, yes, laugh it up. What I’m about to tell you is under the strictest secrecy, you understand?”

That made them get serious. “Okay. What is it?” asked Padma.

“I created a spell to detect _atman_ without fully understanding what it meant.”

Padma smacked her forehead.

Parvati groaned: “Hermione, how do you make half the stuff you do these days sound like a violation of the laws of nature?”

“From a muggle perspective, that describes all of magic,” she said coolly. “Trust me when I say it’s important.”

“Fine, but still…” Padma said. “Okay, and what did it do?”

Hermione described the basics of her Soul-Detection Charm, what she wanted it to do—detect “dark spirits” as she called them and distinguish them from humans—and the results when she cast it on various targets. Parvati and Padma listened curiously, but ultimately explained how misguided she was.

“I can understand why it didn’t work as intended,” Parvati said. “You’re trying to impose a Western concept of soul onto a philosophy where it doesn’t really fit. I’m not sure why it didn’t trip on plants or rocks, though.”

“Rocks?” Hermione said in confusion.

“It’s…complicated,” Padma explained. “ _Atman_ means different things to different people. It literally means the innermost self, basically, but that’s open to interpretation. In monist schools, _Atman_ is said to be the same as the universal soul, _Brahman_ , which pervades even inanimate objects.”

“You mean pantheism,” Hermione said.

“If that’s the way you’d put it. That’s also Western terminology. But dualistic schools say different. They say the universal soul is different from individual souls, _jivatman_ or _jiva_ , and as a Christian, I’m sure you we’re been thinking that way.”

Hermione nodded.

“But either way, the Hindu concept of soul can mean…Well, are you familiar with _Samsara?_ ”

“Reincarnation?”

“Close enough. In _Samsara_ , the soul, whatever you want to call it, can be reborn in the body of a human, an animal, a spirit, or depending who you ask, maybe even a plant. It doesn’t exactly distinguish between them.”

“But my spell did,” Hermione protested. “I created a spell that’s called _Atma Prakata_ , and it distinguishes animals, humans, and spirits, and doesn’t pick up plants at all.”

“Wait, so you don’t believe animals have souls?” Parvati cut in.

Hermione sighed. “Christians believe they don’t, but the original Hebrew usage of the word included _some_ animals—vertebrates and only vertebrates. But my spell still picks up insects.”

“You know, this really sounds like more of a question for Professor Flitwick,” Parvati said. “It sounds like your arithmancy worked as intended, right?”

“It _looks_ like it did,” Hermione said. “But I need to know if I’m interpreting it correctly before I go on.”

“Then that’s definitely a Charms question. Would you trust him if we asked him?”

“I…yes, I suppose so.”

“Okay, can you wait a while? The Carrows are watching the teachers as much as the students. We’ll need to talk to Neville about checking the Map to make sure they don’t notice of us.”

“Of course. Call again when it’s safe.”

“By, Hermione,” they said, and the mirror switched off.

In took nearly an hour for the Parvati and Padma to contact her again. This time, Professor Flitwick’s face also appeared in the view in his office.

“Ah, an ingenious little device,” the professor said. “I remember James Potter and his friends using these. Oh, hello, Miss Granger.”

“Hello, Professor.”

“How may I help you this evening.”

“Well, I’m working on a spell. I can’t tell you what I’m using it for, but it’s meant to be a Soul-Detection Charm.” Hermione and the Patils then explained her problem a second time to Professor Flitwick and the linguistic and philosophical difficulties they were having. Flitwick listened attentively and considered the problem.

“I think there is no great difficulty, Miss Granger,” he concluded. “I trust your arithmancy, and given that, I see no reason not to take the results of your spell at face value.”

“Then why doesn’t it match any of the words?” she asked.

“Magic is intent, after all. You used the Hindu word, intending the Christian or Judeo-Christian concept, not knowing there were vital differences, and your intent won out. But intent can also be collective. And interpretive. You applied this concept of _nephesh_ to your spell. You say that _nephesh_ does not apply to insects, but I think it is likely that the ancient writers _would_ have interpreted insects as _nephesh_ if they had the understanding of life we do now, and those things also played into your spell.”

Hermione closed her eyes. “Anything with a _brain_ ,” she muttered. “The same as the Killing Curse.”

“Excuse me?” Flitwick said with raised eyebrows.

“I convinced Professor Snape to do some animal tests last year. There’s a fitting symmetry there that I probably should have seen before.”

“Oh. I see,” he said, looking uncomfortable.

“Well, the main thing is, the spell works,” she said. “Thank you, Professor. Now I can move on to the next step.”

“I don’t know what next step you could possibly be making from here, but I wish you luck, Miss Granger. Good night.”

“Good night, Professor, Parvati, Padma. Mirror off.”

* * *

November turned into December. With her Soul-Detection Charm in hand, and her other results from the past year, Hermione now felt like she had a good lead for getting rid of regular horcruxes. She wasn’t certain Dumbledore would have approved, but she wasn’t going to hold back on his account. The way forward looked challenging, but clear, and she pursued it doggedly. It would take time, though.

She’d also poked at the problem of You-Know-Who’s—or rather Rookwood’s—flight spell when she needed a break, but she didn’t have any insights there. She had no idea how he’d pulled that one off. She took her own advice and didn’t spend too much time on the problem.

The Order was continuing to fight the good fight. Hermione didn’t know a whole lot about what was going on. Only so much was passed through to Radio Free Britain and _Liberation_ , and it took time when it was, but that was as it should be. At least there wasn’t too much more bad news for a little while. She made a little time to give people helpful tips over the wireless like basic spells and security tactics anyone could use. It was going as smoothly as it could under the circumstances.

The next news from Hogwarts, however, was not good.

“Harry…” Neville said in a hollow voice on the communication mirror. “They took Luna.”

 _“What?”_ Harry gasped, and in moments everyone was crowded around him. Mr. Lovegood was there at once, standing over Harry, as white as a sheet.

“Wh-wh-what happened, Mr. Longbottom,” her father said.

“Mr. Lovegood, I’m sorry,” Neville said. “They found out—or maybe they guessed, I reckon—that you were printing _Liberation._ ”

Mr. Lovegood swooned, and Fred had to put a stool under him so he wouldn’t fall over. “My Luna,” he cried. “Did I say something wrong? Did I drop a line about Nargles in by accident?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Neville said. Now that she looked closer, Hermione could see he’d been crying, himself. “I don’t think so. I don’t know if they had anything to go on but the timing.”

“How did it happen?” Harry asked.

“They just _took_ her. You know how many Death Eaters there are around here. We—the D.A.—we’ve been guarding people we thought were at risk, but they just came in force and overpowered us. I…couldn’t stop them,” he sobbed softly. “I lost her.”

“Do you know anything else, Neville?” Harry demanded. “Do you know where they took her? What they want?”

“They want to stop _Liberation_ , of course,” he said. “They didn’t exactly leave a note, but they said why they took her like they knew it’d get back to you, Mr. Lovegood. I don’t know where she is. I wish I did. I’d go in there and tear the place apart—” His voice cracked, and he broke off.

Hermione patted Mr. Lovegood’s shoulder. “We’ll get the Order on it,” she said. “We won’t force you to keep printing the paper. We can keep going and try to bluff that it’s not you, or—”

“I don’t know,” he said shakily. “I just don’t know.”

“Hermione,” Neville said from the mirror. “There’s something else you should know. There was…there was a lot of fighting when they took her, and…Hermione, it’s Septima.”

Hermione felt her knees go weak, and George quickly grabbed hold of her to keep her on her feet. “Is she…”

“She alive, but…she’s in bad shape. Madam Pomfrey’s got her now, but I think she’d have been transferred to St. Mungo’s if Pomfrey trusted them.”

Hermione raised one trembling hand to grab onto her boyfriend’s arm. “George, I need your help,” she said.

* * *

Hermione and George took their two remaining brooms on the same path she had taken with Harry weeks ago: Apparating to the woods, flying under the Lake, and floating up from the Anchor Stones. Going out in the field was far from her thing, but this was personal. Even Harry understood, and he lent her the Marauder’s Map for the trip.

Daphne met them at the base of the Grand Staircase with her wand out. “Password?” she asked.

“Montgomery,” Hermione said. “How is she?”

The Slytherin girl dithered a bit. “She’s awake,” she said. “The D.A.’s guarding her. She made some people really mad, so we’re trying to protect her. Madam Pomfrey’s covering for us saying whoever’s in there is there for something boring or personal.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said.

They proceeded up to the Infirmary, keeping hidden. Once there, Daphne entered first. All Hermione could see was an area in the back that was curtained off, a boy sitting on a nearby bed, turned away from her, and Madam Pomfrey busy cleaning.

“Madam Pomfrey,” Daphne said. “I brought visitors.”

The Mediwitch turned toward them and looked at the seemingly alone Daphne. “Who is it, Miss Greengrass?”

Hermione and George cancelled the Disillusionment Charms on themselves.

“Miss Granger!” Pomfrey gasped. “Mr. Weasley!”

“Hi,” Hermione said. “I had to see…”

“Of course. Of course. I understand completely. This way.” Madam Pomfrey ushered them to the back and motioned for them to wait outside the curtain. It was then that Hermione noticed who the boy was sitting on the opposite bed with his wand in his lap.

“Zabini!” she exclaimed, drawing her wand.

“Zabini?” George said.

But to her surprise, Zabini flinched and dropped his wand. “Don’t hurt me!” he said, putting his hands up.

“Easy, Granger. He’s with us,” Daphne whispered, putting her hand on her shoulder.

Hermione half turned to face her, not taking her wand off the boy. “He’s not a Death Eater?” she asked.

Daphne winced a little, and Zabini rubbed his left arm.

“He _is?!_ ” she hissed.

“Megan says he’s okay.”

Hermione’s eyes widened in understanding. “The boyfriend?” she said, glancing back at Zabini. “ _He_ _’s_ her boyfriend?”

“I’m as surprised as you, Granger.”

“She trusts him? Wait, _you_ trust him?” Sure, there were people who went against their families in Slytherin, but Blaise Zabini was famous for his mother being widowed seven times over. He was the sort of boy you strongly warned girls not to associate with on general principle.

“Are we good, Granger?” Zabini asked. “Don’t turn me into anything…unnatural?”

Hermione’s face fell, and she lowered her wand. “I’ve got a reputation now, don’t I?”

“Er…Theo’s dad told everyone what you did to Umbridge,” Zabini said. “Word gets around.”

“Hey, the more you scare them, the better,” George said. She didn’t feel convinced.

Daphne motioned Hermione off to the side. “Don’t worry about it, Granger,” she said. “If you scare some Death Eaters, so much the better. Look, Blaise’s had plenty of chances to capture or kill Megan by now. The Death Eaters don’t like her because of her sister, and the Dark Lord would’ve made him do it if he knew about them. We’re keeping an eye on him, but we’re pretty sure he’s legit. And we definitely trust him enough to guard our Head of House.”

Hermione looked to Septima’s curtained off the bed. In all the chaos, she’d forgotten that she was the new Head of Slytherin this year.

“Miss Granger,” Madam Pomfrey said. “Septima is ready to see you. Just…try to go easy on her. She’s not at her best. And…keep the visitors to a minimum.” She looked apologetically at George.

Hermione stepped through the curtain alone and saw Septima half-sitting up on the bed, propped up on some pillows. Physically, she didn’t look too bad—just some bruises—but appearances could be deceiving with magical healing. She _was_ wearing thick glasses like Professor Trelawney used to.

“Hello, Septima.”

Septima extended a trembling hand to her. “Hermione,” she said. “Thank you for coming. But…it’s dangerous, you know. Death Eaters everywhere. I don’t…know if you should have come.”

“I—”

“The Carrows are watching out for intruders, and I’m…afraid of what they’ll do if they find you here.”

“I had to come, Septima,” Hermione said. “And I know how to get around unseen. No one saw me. What happened?”

Septima sighed and lowered her gaze. “Well…there was a disturbance this morning after breakfast when I was on my way to class. Your friends have been watching each other’s backs this year. They never go anywhere alone, and I…guess they’ve appointed lieutenants in each house to make sure everyone is safe. So when there are fights, it usually means a group of them against…Death Eater sympathisers—”

“I know, Septima,” Hermione interrupted. “I’ve been in touch.”

“Oh…right. Well…ah, I’ve lost my train of thought.”

“The disturbance this morning.”

“Yes. There was a lot of shouting, and a lot of the teachers heard. I went to look, and…you remember when Umbridge was driven out of the castle by Dumbledore’s Army? It was like that, except there were a lot of Slytherin students, and it had already come to curses. Two of them had Miss Lovegood, and they were dragging her off.”

“To You-Know-Who?” Hermione said.

“No…or that’s not what they said. No one really said what the real story was, but they said she was…” Septima screwed up her face in concentration. “Wanted…something like wanted for questioning about…propaganda against the Ministry…I don’t remember, exactly, so I might have got the story wrong, but I think that’s what it was—”

“I—I know why they took her, Septima,” Hermione said. “Neville told me.”

“Oh, good.”

Hermione frowned at her teacher. She was rambling. She couldn’t seem to finish her thoughts when she spoke, and she would get stuck on some of them. If you didn’t know her, you might not even notice anything was wrong. It wasn’t too far outside the norm, but the difference from how she spoke before was obvious. Something awful must have happened.

“So they said they were taking Luna to the Ministry?” she continued.

“Yes,” Septima said, “but I don’t think anyone believed them. The Carrows and Professor Crouch were helping them take her—to take Miss Lovegood. There were…there were a lot more of Dumbledore’s army trying to fight them. The rest of the teachers got involved, but we were more worried—they were using all sorts of dark curses, and we were worried about keeping the other students safe, especially—and they were even using Cruciatus Curses, and they were especially after the Slytherins.”

Hermione gasped. “I…I think I’m starting to understand,” she said.

“There’s more, Granger,” Daphne said from behind her. “Tracey and Georgina were with the group that tried to save Lovegood. The other Death Eaters were mad that they joined in.”

“What about you?” Hermione asked.

“I was stopping Astoria from joining in. She’d have only got herself hurt. Blaise was on the other side, but he was just making a show of it, for what it’s worth. He had to. He couldn’t go against the other Death Eaters. Anyway, it was a cluster. The teachers were trying to save Lovegood and trying to stop the Death Eaters from hurting the students at the same time. Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle went after Tracey and Georgina, and…”

Hermione suddenly looked around nervously. “Where are they?” she asked.

Septima started crying. “Detention,” she said. “The same thing—the same…”

“Detention mean Cruciatus,” Daphne said coldly. “At least, it does for something that serious. Slytherins working against what’s clearly the Dark Lord’s orders, even if they don’t say it? Tracey tried to run, but she couldn’t just hide in the Room forever. Professor Vector tried to protect Georgina.”

“She’s only a fourth year,” Septima sobbed. “I tried to say she was too young to understand…”

“They didn’t give her the chance. They Crucioed her before she could talk. Not that it would’ve matter. I’ve seen them Crucio firsties.”

“That’s how you got hurt?” Hermione breathed.

“N-no,” Septima said. “When they…hit me, I…hit my head.”

“Take it easy, Professor,” Daphne said. “She doesn’t remember very well. She was under the curse long enough to do permanent damage, but that wasn’t the worst. When they tortured her, she cracked her head on the floor. Repeatedly.” Hermione squeaked in horror and raised her hands to her mouth. “It was bad. Worse than they do to the students. They knew they could get away with it. There was blood everywhere, and I didn’t think she’d make it after she passed out and went limp. Then Hagrid went berserk and hit Amycus so hard he nearly killed him.”

“Hagrid!” Hermione said.

“Yeah. They chased him out of the castle, but they got away with Lovegood in the scuffle.”

“Oh, Hagrid,” she sighed. “So, the head injury, Septima?”

Septima sobbed harder and buried her face in her hands: “I’m sorry, Hermione. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t be of any help to you anymore. I’ve lost it…I’ve lost it all!”

“What? Lost what?” Hermione said.

“ _Arithmancy!_ ” she yelled, and Hermione recoiled in horror. “I can’t do it anymore. I’ve tried, but my memory…my memory is shot, and…I’m struggling just to add and subtract without making a mistake.”

Hermione was frozen for a minute. Finally, she felt George putting his arms around her from behind, and she turned and clung to him. She felt tears running down her cheeks. Her voice caught in her throat. “You’re…you’re still healing, aren’t you?” She turned to the Slytherin girl. “Daphne?”

Daphne shook her head: “You’ll have to ask Madam Pomfrey.”

“Madam Pomfrey—”

“I heard everything, Miss Granger,” the matron said. She stepped around the curtain and looked pointedly looked at Septima. Septima nodded, giving her permission. “I understand muggle healing for head injuries can be quite slow,” she said, “but it’s usually quite quick with magic. Even if someone is out for a few hours, a witch will be back to normal in a day or two—if it’s possible. But sme things magic just can’t heal—especially with the Cruciatus Curse involved. I expect Septima will show improvement with further recovery and retraining, but…it’ll be a miracle if she’s ever able to teach again.”

At that, Hermione broke down completely and buried her face in George’s shoulder, sobbing. Traumatic brain injury. Perhaps the cruelest curse of all—robbing her of her faculties, her memory, her talents, and her livelihood. Irreversible and, to add insult to injury, no magic. It was one of Hermione’s own greatest fears—a fear so deep that she hardly even dared _think_ it—having the thing that was so much of her life ripped away from her forever.

She wasn’t sure how long she was there. The next thing she knew, she was sitting on a bed, still clinging to George. Zabini had left the room, and Daphne was standing at a respectful distance.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I can’t…”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” Septima said automatically.

“It’s not!” she said.

“Uh—no, I suppose it’s not. But I have faith in you. You need to worry about yourself.”

“But you’re the one who…”

“Yes, but you—you’re more valuable than I am. Dumbledore himself as good as said it, so don’t—and I could see it too ages ago. So don’t try to deny it.”

Hermione wiped her eyes and forced a small smile. “Septima, what are you going to do?”

“Don’t worry about me. I have a few options once I’m well enough to leave.”

She sighed, then had another thought. “Oh! but your replacement—”

“I know,” she said. “I don’t want to have another Death Eater in the castle, corrupting the students and hurting them, but do you know Mr. Tinworth from _Annals of Arithmancy?_ ” Hermione nodded. “He was there at that award ceremony when you were there, and I think you’ve written to him a couple times. He kept his head down during the whole thing with Umbridge, so I can tell he’ll stay away from being politically objectionable, and he’ll be a good teacher. Anyway, I made sure he knew he owed me a favour after he wouldn’t give you the Wenlock Prize, so—just for the rest of the school year—I called him in to take over—just hoping we won’t have to worry about next year.”

“We probably won’t be able to avoid one of the Death Eaters taking over as head of Slytherin, though,” Daphne said.

“How much trouble will that cause?” said Hermione.

Daphne shrugged: “It’ll be a _lot_ harder for Slytherins to join in any D.A. stuff without Professor Vector to cover for us. Probably not a lot else. It’s bad enough already.”

Hermione was about to point out any number of ways things could get worse when Hannah Abbott provided a distraction by coming into the Infirmary at a dead run.

“Hermione! You have to go _now!_ ” she said. “I don’t know how, but they know you’re here!”

George was on his feet before Hermione was. He pulled her to the exit, and she nearly tripped going down the stairs. When they reached the third floor, they pulled in different directions. The Hospital Wing was near _an_ exit, but not the way they came in.

“No, there’s no time,” George said when he realised she was heading back to the Anchor Stones. “Get the brooms out again. We’ll make for the Forest.”

She stopped to open her handbag and pulled out the brooms they’d flown in on under the Lake.

“It’s her!”

“Granger!”

“Get them!”

“Go! Go! Follow me!” George yelled.

Curses flew past them, and Hermione jumped on her broom and flew unsteadily after George. She wasn’t used to flying indoors (and neither was he, to be honest). Hermione slashed behind her with curses of her own, though she was mostly hoping the reputation Zabini had alluded to would work in her favour. There was a boom as George blasted the doors open and flew out into the Clock Tower Courtyard. She followed him above the covered bridge and out towards the Forbidden Forest, over the trees.

“Do you think we lost them?” she called over the wind.

“I think so,” he said. “We just have to get outside the wards—”

A bolt of red light flew past them. Hermione looked over her shoulder and saw three pursuers, also on broomsticks.

“Scratch that! Dive! Dive! Dive!” he yelled. George dropped down and flew into the trees. He slowed to be able to dodge them, but Hermione still couldn’t keep up, barely weaving between the tree trunks without hitting them.

“AHH! George, I—AH! I can’t do this!”

“Dammit!” He slowed enough to pull alongside her and held his hand out to her. “Get on my back!”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“Just do it!”

She grabbed his hand with both of hers and squeezed her eyes shut as he pulled her off her own broom and onto his back, where she held him tight. A moment later, she felt a stick hit her. He’d flipped her broom around somehow and was trying to hand it back to her. She struggled to get it back into her handbag as he accelerated. If she’d known they’d be flying through the Forest, she would have started with just one. She screamed and held him tight as he sped up to what seemed a suicidal pace through the trees. There were still spells flying past them, not that anyone could hit anything at these speeds.

“Hermione, I need your wand,” he said.

She peaked out and looked over her shoulder, trying to shut out the sight of trees flying past her. Three broom riders were closing in on them from behind, but there was no way she could hit a small target in these conditions. She had to use the terrain. Concentrating on a very specific area to target, she waved her wand in a long arc directly over her head and cast, _“Facite Aqua Lignorum!”_

Huge tree limbs snapped off at the trunks under their own weight and crashed to the ground behind them as her spell destroyed their structural strength, barricading their way.

“Woo! Whatever that was, keep doing it!” George said.

Wind and flame roared out behind them, blowing the barricade aside. Hermione tried to drop another one on top of their pursuers but the wind was already blowing George off course, and a hail of twigs bombarded them.

“Who’s that! What’s goin’ on, there?” a voice called.

“Watch out!” George yelled.

Hermione turned to see what he was warning about only to duck when she saw an arrow fly past her head. They swung wide as they emerged into a clearing.

“Get ‘em, Grawpy!”

_“RAWRRR!”_

_BOOM!_

_“AHHH!”_

George and Hermione zipped by just as Grawp lifted a log that had to weigh three or four hundred pounds and swung it at the first pursuer. Hagrid fired another crossbow bolt at the second. Hermione and George both started casting hexes, and they were quickly put to rout.

The two giants turned to them, and they flinched back, but Hagrid said, “Easy, Grawpy. Hermione! George! Er, it is George, isn’t it?”

“Hermy!” thundered Grawp. Hermione waved to him nervously.

“Yeah. Thanks for the save, Hagrid,” George said.

“Weren’t no trouble. But what’re yeh doin’ here?”

“We had to see Septima,” Hermione said.

“Ohhh…Should’ve known, then. Yeh shouldn’t take such risks on her account, though, and I’m sure she’d tell yeh that, too.”

“We thought we’d be okay. I still don’t even know how they knew we were there.”

Hagrid grumbled. “Who knows how them Death Eaters know everythin’. How _is_ Septima, then?”

She shook her head: “Not good. Head injury. She’s stable, but Madam Pomfrey doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to teach again.”

“Oh, no!” he said in horror. “Not Septima. Oh, and that’s got ter be awful for yeh, too.”

“I know. She…she said you defended her.”

“Said you nearly killed Amycus Carrow,” George added.

“Yeah. Wish I had,” he growled.

“He was the one who did it?” Hermione asked.

“Uh huh—wait, yer not thinkin’ of goin’ after him, are yeh, Hermione?”

“I just want to know,” she said. She didn’t know what she’d do if she actually got the chance. “I know you were her friend, too. Thank you.”

“Had teh do it, yeh know. Did they at least save Luna?”

“No, I’m sorry. They got her. We don’t know where she is.”

Hagrid sighed and sat down hard enough that the ground shook. And then Grawp sat down beside him and nearly knocked Hermione and George off their feet. “Terrible business,” he muttered. “Terrible.” Hagrid and Luna didn’t even get along that well despite their mutual love of animals, but she knew he’d be blaming himself for her capture as much as for Septima’s injury. “An’ they took her ‘cause of her dad, didn’t they.”

“They couldn’t prove it, but yes.”

“We’d better go soon,” George said. “Are you gonna be okay out here, Hagrid. I guess you got chased off the grounds.”

“Sure, I’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ve lived out in the wilderness before.”

“You’ll be safe here?” Hermione asked.

“Course I will. Ain’t nothin’ gonna mess with me an’ Grawp, here.”

“At least let me give you…” she started.

“I don’ need anythin’, Hermione. You’d better get out of here before there’s any more trouble.”

“I’ve got one thing, though.” She dug through her handbag to find her one spare dagger—a larger one than her stiletto that she’d made and briefly considered adding to her kit before deciding against it. At Hagrid’s size it would be the perfect size for a survival knife. “Give me five minutes, and I can put a handle your size on this.”

“Yeh don’ need teh.”

“I’m not going to use it. And I guarantee it’ll be the toughest and sharpest knife you’ve ever owned. Unless you’re hiding a goblin-made dagger somewhere.” She carried a bag of charcoal in her handbag as well to use to make nanotubes in a pinch, and it did take only five minutes for her to build a handle sized of Hagrid’s hand. She handed it to him, and it tried it on a tree branch. It cleaved right through.

“Blimey! Thanks, Hermione,” he said.

“Happy Christmas, Hagrid. Let’s go.”

* * *

They made it back to the factory without any trouble. Unfortunately, it wasn’t long before they heard from the Order that the Death Eaters were, at what must have been an enormous expenditure of labour, extending the Caterwauling Charm from Hogsmeade over the entire Unplottable Area around Hogwarts—ten times the area it covered before. Their last safe route into Hogwarts was closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I ended up making a significant cut in my outline here. I originally had a big subplot planned with Blaise turning spy in a close parallel to how Snape did, but it just didn’t fit—not in Hermione’s story, anyway. There’s no reason for him to go to her in particular, and I realised it didn’t even matter beyond what became the second half of this chapter, so I cut it down to just a cameo.


	65. Seventh Year, Winter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Harry Potter is backed up to JK Rowling’s drive. Or something. Bit distracted today.
> 
> PSA: When you're backing up your computer, be sure to back up your hidden AppData folder along with all of your regular files. There’s important stuff in there, too.
> 
> Shortly before the first time I posted this chapter, my computer crashed so badly yesterday that I had to reinstall Windows from scratch. The good news was, I didn’t lose any files. The bad news was, I lost all of my programs, including the factory installs, and it took me all day to get everything working again. It even wiped my Firefox bookmarks, were in the AppData folder. Luckily, my computer also saves a Windows 8 backup that wasn't touched, so I got them back eventually, but I was freaking out for a while.
> 
> Update: I have made some minor changes to this chapter to fix some problems in the sequel.

“Did you figure out how they knew I was there?” Hermione asked Neville on Harry’s mirror as Harry, George, and Fred looked on.

“Yeah,” he said. “It was obvious after the fact. They knew you’d come to see Septima, so they just kept an Extendable Ear listening in on the Hospital Wing.”

Hermione groaned. _Every_ time it was about being too bloody predictable. It was like she was cursed.

“I know. It sucks,” Neville agreed. “Madam Pomfrey always worries about people coming in and disturbing the patients, not information going out the other way. She wanted to tell you she’s sorry, and she’s stepping up security. Although with the Carrows around, they can pretty much just barge in there anyway.”

“It’s better than nothing,” she admitted. She yawned. She was exhausted after the emotional toll of yesterday and a sleepless night afterwards. Just seeing Septima like that gave her nightmares, and she’d spent a fair bit of time huddled with George on the sofa.

“By the way, do you know if the Death Eaters can track your wireless station?” Neville added. “I’ve heard people talking about trying to find it.”

“They shouldn’t be able to,” Hermione said. “It’s under a Fidelius Charm, but I’ll keep that in mind. Was there anything else?”

“Well, Zabini came through for us in one way, anyway,” Neville said.

“What’s that?” Harry asked.

“He told us where Luna is.”

“What? Where?” Harry and Hermione gasped.

“She’s not in Azkaban?” George and Fred added.

“No. Apparently, the important prisoners from the Order and stuff are being held in the dungeon in Malfoy Manor.”

“Of _course_ they have a dungeon,” Hermione muttered.

“Did he tell you how to get in?” asked Harry.

“No. I’m sorry. He doesn’t have any direct connections with the Malfoys. He was lucky to get that much.”

“Alright, thanks, Nev,” Harry told him. “We’ll see what we can do.”

Hermione’s first instinct was to ask Dobby for help. He had been the Malfoys’ house elf for decades, so perhaps he knew how to get in. Unfortunately, the elf very apologetically told her that he couldn’t. He could have slipped through before, but since the Death Eaters knew she was using him to help her get around, they had changed the wards so unfriendly elves couldn’t get in. And Malfoy Manor was the oldest and best-defended of the Death Eaters’ homes—nearly as impossible to break into as Hogwarts. They knew where Luna was now, but they still had no way to get to her.

* * *

A few Order members raided Borgin and Burkes in Knockturn Alley just before Christmas. Of course, Hermione only heard because it was passed on to Radio Free Britain. There were no major injuries, but from the sounds of it, they didn’t make any great gains, either. The whole war was less a war and more a series of raids and counter-raids, and the real problem was that the Order was just at too much of a numbers disadvantage.

In the meantime, Hermione continued hammering away at her project, half just to shut out the pain and half out of desperation. The Twins also kept up their wireless show. Mr. Lovegood did stop printing _Liberation_ , though. Hermione didn’t think she agreed with that, but it was his prerogative. George and Fred announced Luna’s kidnapping on the wireless, but there was no news of her. Whether the Death Eaters were holding her as collateral, or they wanted to make more demands of Mr. Lovegood, or she’d simply outlived her usefulness (or worse, she _hadn_ _’t_ ), they had no idea.

Harry was once again left with nothing to do. Since they weren’t going to be going out anytime soon, his strengths as a field commander weren’t needed. Hermione asked him to take over the mimeograph and start printing propaganda leaflets—much shorter and without the _Liberation_ name—to drop in Diagon Alley and elsewhere if they could. He tried, but he just wasn’t as inspired as Mr. Lovegood was.

The mood was worse on Christmas Day. The whole factory was melancholy that day, between being trapped inside and everyone worrying about their families (even Hermione a little bit). Harry sat by the window staring out at the cold, grey world. Despite the Christmas lights in the city, it was a dark and dreary season, and unseasonably cold. It was always cold these days. Dementor attacks were reported almost daily in remote places. But there was no snow, and the sun hadn’t been seen in Nottingham since November.

“Happy Christmas, Harry,” Hermione said, sitting beside him.

He glanced at her. “If you say so,” he said.

“I know it’s not a very good one.”

Harry continued staring out the window. “It’s not like I’m not used to it,” he said. “I haven’t really had a good Christmas since the Yule Ball…I haven’t _ever_ had one where no one was trying to kill me.”

“One more year?” she offered. If the war wasn’t over a year from now, they’d probably be exiles overseas or dead, she thought.

“I don’t really think that far ahead,” Harry muttered, more to himself than her. She didn’t say anything. She suspected he’d felt that way ever since You-Know-Who came back.

“Well…I know we can’t do much in the way of celebrating this year, but we can still make it into town…for now. I picked this up for you the last time I went for groceries.” She handed him her find from a used bookstore. “I figured with your relatives, you never had a chance to read it as a child.”

“ _The Once and Future King?_ ”

“I never seem to know what to get anyone besides books,” she sighed.

“Well, it could be worse,” he said. “It could’ve been a homework planner.”

Hermione glared at him.

“I thought about visiting my parents’ graves today—”

“That sounds like a _bad_ idea,” she interrupted.

“I know. They’ll probably be watching,” he sighed. “I’ve only been there a couple times, you know. Summers with Sirius. But then the war got too dangerous.”

“If you want, we _might_ be able to get to Muriel’s place for Christmas,” she suggested. “You could see Ginny.”

Harry brightened for a moment, but then slumped again. “I don’t want to put her in more danger,” he said.

“Yes, I figured you’d say that. If it makes you feel any better. I think I’m pretty close to a way to destroy horcruxes.”

“Besides the basilisk fangs we’re carrying you mean.”

“Yes. Something cleaner, I hope.” She skirted around the issue of Harry’s problem. “Anyway…” Unable to think of anything else to say, she stood and wandered out of the room. She might as well get back to work.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” Harry called after her.

She started back to her loft, but she yelped as George grabbed her from behind and pulled her into a hug. She had her wand in his face before she realised what was going on. He nudged it aside and kissed her.

“George…” she said.

“Happy Christmas, Hermione,” he said.

“Happy Christmas to you, too. I was just—”

“Oh, no you’re not. Christmas is a time for family and friends. You’re not going to shut yourself up in your room for the rest of the day.”

“But I’m so close. I’ve almost solved the equation for the spell I need.”

“You can take a day for Christmas,” said George. “You don’t get to just hand us our gifts and go away. Now come on. What d’you say we get a game of Exploding Snape going?”

“Don’t you mean Exploding Snap?”

“Nope!”

* * *

After the…entertaining, but unusual Christmas party, Hermione needed a bit of time to get back in gear, but she was sooner cranking away again. She knew she just about had it. The hardest part would be that she had no way to test the spell except on the real thing. She knew how to detect a soul fragment. Now, what remained was to manipulate it—to exorcise it. To do it, though, she needed to use a lot of arithmantic elements from the Killing Curse.

She reckoned it should be easier than the Killing Curse—and less dark. That curse was a perversion. This was restoring the natural order, but she still had to delve deep into dark magic to do it—far deeper than she suspected Dumbledore would have approved. But she did it.

“It’s ready,” she said. She got out the two shielded boxes that contained Slytherin’s locket and Ravenclaw’s diadem and set them on the coffee table. “I have a spell that destroys horcruxes.”

“You really think it’ll work?” Harry said.

“I’m as sure as I can be without actually trying it. There’s no reason to wait any longer.”

“Hold up, Hermione,” George said. “I don’t think you should do this without Bill here. Get him to look over your spell, make sure everything’s safe.”

“I can’t imagine any standard by which you could call this ‘safe’, George,” she said. “But point taken. Harry, could you call him, please?”

Bill arrived about an hour later. He wasn’t happy about leaving Fleur, who was seven months along by now, but he understood the necessity. Hermione showed him her notes on her spell, but he couldn’t be of much help there.

“This…this is beyond me,” he said. “I understand some of it, and it is…scary. I’ve seen curses written on tomb walls that were less scary than this. But a lot of it…Fourier series…topological manifolds…Is some of this even maths?”

“It is,” Hermione said.

“I’m sorry, but I’m a Cursebreaker, not a master arithmancer.”

“Will it _work?_ ” she demanded.

“Your guess is as good as mine, Hermione. If you say it’ll work, you’re probably right.”

“But will it backfire horribly?” George said.

“I don’t…think so? I can tell you it won’t reflect or anything. And the power level is such that it shouldn’t bring down the building, so if it _does_ go wrong, it’ll be manageable, but I can’t be certain without understanding Hermione’s maths. But Hermione, this is some really dark magic. I can see parallels with the Killing Curse. Do you think you even _can_ cast it.”

The others stared at her in surprise. She hadn’t given them many details. But Hermione didn’t flinch. “It shouldn’t be as hard as the Killing Curse,” she said. “At least, it shouldn’t be as hard specifically for horcruxes. The Killing Curse requires murderous intent to cut off a natural life, but a horcrux is a fragment of a soul unnaturally bound to an object. It should be easier to dislodge.”

“Yeah…yeah, I can see that,” Bill conceded. “Never really thought of it that way, but it makes sense.”

“I don’t think it’s worth waiting any longer,” Hermione said.

Harry nodded firmly. “I’m with her. We have to make _some_ progress here.”

“Okay,” he agreed. He picked up the box with Slytherin’s locket inside. “We’ll put this somewhere safe. I’ll spot for you. Harry, get one of those basilisk fangs out in case it goes wrong. Everyone else…just stay back. This could get ugly.”

Bill levitated the horcrux out of the box and set it on the factory floor, far from any equipment or supports, making sure not to touch it. The heavy, gold locket rattled on the floor, as if sensing danger, but it couldn’t move under its own power. Hermione stepped forward. She held her hand out to George behind her. He squeezed it once and let her go. Bill took his place on Hermione’s right, ready to deal with any trouble. Harry was on her left, ready to run in with a basilisk fang.

“Okay…” Hermione breathed. “Everyone just stay still for a minute.” She aimed her wand down at the locket, remembering the sick decapitated snake feeling that had surrounded it under her Soul-Detection Charm, and she focused all of her hatred of You-Know-Who into her spell. Her red oak wand felt like cold iron in her hand. She felt the energy shoot down her arm as she did the motions and spoke the words:

_“Magrisha Kedavra!”_

A surge of energy left her so hard it was almost like a kick to her chest. The onlookers gasped as a bolt of green light lanced out from her wand and flew towards the locket—a bolt that was a distinctly darker shade of green than the Killing Curse, and yet somehow still just as luminous.

_BOOM!_

The spell struck true. There was a powerful blast, and everyone shielded their eyes against flying bits of concrete. The Twins screamed. But when the dust cleared, Hermione gasped and slumped in dismay.

The locket was at the bottom of a foot-wide crater, completely intact.

“It didn’t work!” she said. “What happened?”

“C-could be any number of problems,” Bill said. He cautiously approached the locket, and he crouched down and poked it with his wand. “Insufficient focus on the spell, inexperience, needing incredibly precise aim. Or it could be that it just doesn’t work.”

“Harry, did you ever notice anything odd about that locket?” Hermione said.

“I don’t know. I haven’t seen enough horcruxes to know. And the ones I’ve seen have all been different.”

“I wonder…” Bill muttered to himself. “It could be goblin-made. Then it would be impervious to normal magic.”

“That’s not in any of the stories,” Hermione said.

“No, and it’s just a guess, but if it is, you’ll need either a goblin sword or a goblin forge or Fiendfyre to destroy it.”

_Destroyed in the fires where it was wrought, Hermione thought._

Harry shook his head. “It doesn’t feel right. Not for something Slytherin had…Bill, is that locket safe to touch?”

Bill waved his wand over it a few times. “I wouldn’t want to do it for very long, but yeah, it should be.”

“Let me see it,” he said. He bent down over the crater and picked it up, letting it hang from his hand. He stared at it intently, as if he thought he would compel it to reveal its secrets by sheer will. His face contorted in disgust as he observed it. Hermione guessed he could feel the dark magic radiating off it—maybe even feel the pull it had on his scar. “Guys…” he said. “I think the horcrux is inside the locket.”

“Inside?” Bill said.

“Yeah. I think…I think it’s only vulnerable on the inside, somehow. Like the invulnerability is on the whole thing, but the soul piece is only inside. I’m not sure how, but…I can feel it. I think we need to open it.”

 _An innovation to the horcrux?_ Hermione thought. _An extra layer of resistance to protect against at least one of the things horcruxes were normally vulnerable to?_ It was scarily plausible.

“But how do we open it?” Bill said. “We never could before.”

“It belonged to Slytherin, didn’t it?” Harry said. “It should open with Parseltongue.”

Bill looked back and forth between him and Hermione. “It’s worth a shot,” he said.

Harry put the locket on the ground on an undamaged section of floor and backed away. “Get ready Hermione,” he said. “I have a feeling that whatever’s in there…it’s gonna put up a fight.” She nodded and raised her wand. “On three…One—two—three—” A hiss came out of Harry’s mouth.

The locket popped open, and it all went wrong.

A pulse of magic knocked everyone in the room off their feet. A dark, malicious eye appeared behind each of the panels of the locket, but that was all Hermione saw before a swirling black vortex burst out of it and rose to the ceiling, threatening to blow the roof off the factory, and a sibilant voice emerged from the depths of it.

_“Hermione Granger, I have seen your heart, and it is mine.”_

“Don’t listen to it!” Bill shouted, but his voice distant in her ears with the roar of the phantom wind. Hermione pushed back with her Occlumency as she felt it attack her mind, but it barely slowed the words from cutting through. She knew she had to raise her wand again, but she couldn’t.

_“I have seen your dreams, and I have also seen your fears. And your secret pain.”_

_Share your pain with me, and gain strength from the sharing,_ she thought desperately to shut it out. She hated that movie.

_“Abandoned the life you loved for a world you didn’t know. Abandoned your parents, defied them, and lied to them, all for a boy who only caused you trouble.”_

“Hermione! Destroy it!” Bill said.

_“Sent them away and destroyed your home to save a boy who didn’t want your help. And you failed.”_

“It’s lying! Kill it!” Harry’s voice drifted to her.

 _“You will fail to help your friend, just like you failed to save_ them _._ _”_

Suddenly, the cloud of darkness took shape. Faces appeared and spoke with reproachful voices—the faces of all the people she had failed to save.

 _“I died to save you,”_ said Lee Jordan.

 _“I was right there and you couldn’t save me,”_ said Cho Chang.

 _“You allowed the one person who could win this war to die,”_ said Albus Dumbledore, his throat cut.

 _“You let your best friend become a murderer,”_ said Draco Malfoy, his chest full of holes.

 _“Look at my face!”_ said Fred, the whisker-like scars fresh and red. _“George and I can’t ever pull the identical prank again because you don’t even know how to run into a fight.”_

“It’s wrong!” Fred yelled. “I don’t care about that!”

 _“You couldn’t even finish a simple breakout without bringing the Death Eaters down on us!”_ said Mad-Eye Moody.

 _“Any child could have told you_ he _would come after Harry,_ _”_ Oliver Wood.

 _“You failed us,”_ said Mr. Clarke from Kent.

 _“You failed our family,”_ said Mrs. Clarke.

“Harry, do it!” Bill ordered.

Harry ran forward with the basilisk fang, but another blast of magic threw him down, and the fang clattered across the floor.

 _“_ You _are a murderer,_ _”_ said Robert Jugson.

 _“Murderer,”_ echoed a faceless Death Eater—the one she’d thrown from her broom.

 _“Torturer.”_ Dolohov. _“Butcher.”_ Travers. _“Assassin.”_ Bellatrix.

“Hermione!” George yelled.

Then, to her horror, Umbridge appeared as she last saw her—limbs split, contorted, and frozen at impossible angles, her face a ruin, more curses than she wanted to think about. _“Look at me, Granger,”_ she said, her voice distorted by the disfigurement. _“Look at me. You did this to me. You did this to a defenceless woman.”_

“Defenceless my whipped arse! Kill it!” said George.

_“All for the selfish boy who only cares about how you can help him.”_

“No!” said Harry. “She’s lying!”

“You _are the monster. You must be_ _…punished.”_

For one terrible moment, Hermione’s hand pulled back, turning her wand away from the locket. On anyone else. On Harry. On _herself_. Her Occlumency was in shambles, barely hanging on. The only thing that stopped her was when she saw the marks on the back of her hand. _I must not tell lies._

_“MAGRISHA KEDAVRA!”_

A bolt of green lanced out and struck the open locket. She blinked and the swirling vortex and the horrible image of Umbridge had vanished. There was a sense of something dark and terrible flying away at high speeds, vanishing with a _shriek_ so awful that she didn’t think even a Banshee could match it, and it was gone. The inert locket clattered open on the floor.

Hermione lowered her wand. Her hand was shaking. George grabbed her in a tight hug from behind. She huddled against him, and he ran his fingers soothingly through her hair.

“Phew,” Harry said, clapping her on the shoulder. “I didn’t think you’d go through with it for a minute, there.”

“I…I nearly didn’t,” she said. “The others weren’t that bad.”

“No, one only sicced a giant basilisk on us, and the other fatally cursed Dumbledore,” he deadpanned.

“Your eyes were blinking back and forth from brown to red,” Bill said. “I could tell you were fighting it the whole time, but…it was close.”

“I thought I was losing,” she muttered.

“I think you were doing better than that,” George insisted.

“I just hope the diadem isn’t as bad.”

“Can’t imagine it is,” Harry said. “We would’ve noticed at Hogwarts.”

“Either way, I think we should take a break,” Bill said firmly. “And some hot chocolate.” He picked up the locket and dangled it open by the chain.

“Just a moment,” Hermione said. She raise a trembling wand. _“Atma Prakata.”_

Nothing. It was clean.

George held her by her shoulders and stared deep into her eyes. “It’s going to be okay, Hermione,” he said. She nodded absently. “You listen to me. I love you, and you are _not_ a monster. You are the most brilliant and beautiful girl in the world, and you’ve done more for us than we had any right to ask of you. You did what you had to to save lives, and none of your hypothetical mistakes will change that. Not even what you did to Umbridge.”

“ _Especially_ not what you did to Umbridge,” Fred chimed in.

“What he said,” George agreed, and he kissed her.

In took a real effort for Hermione to banish her worries from her mind and lose herself in the kiss, but George kept snogging her for several minutes until she managed to relax, and it was exactly what she needed.

Meanwhile, Bill called in Mr. Lovegood to join them. They hadn’t told him about Harry’s condition, but they couldn’t avoid giving him a vague idea of the horcruxes and the fact that legendary artifacts were involved, so he was very interested in this situation. A few minutes later, Mr. Lovegood brought out a tray of hot cocoa. Hermione hesitated before drinking it, worried about what strange things he might have done to it, but Fred tried it first and pronounced it good, so she took a sip. Her face brightened upon tasting it. It was unusual, but very good—very dark and a touch bitter, just the way she liked it, but it was also mixed with spices that seemed to enhance the flavour.

“This cocoa is excellent, Mr. Lovegood,” she said.

“Thank you,” he said. “Pandora and I found the recipe in Mexico on our travels before Luna was born.” He fell silent. After sitting and drinking his cocoa for a minute, he turned to Bill and took up a completely different conversation: “William, legend says that Slytherin’s locket has unique magical powers. Since it seems to be cleaned of whatever was ailing it—at least, I assume that’s what that earthquake just now was about—do you have any idea what it does?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Nothing comes to mind, but I don’t know the stories that well.”

“Knowing Slytherin, it’s probably something bad,” said Fred.

Hermione shook her head: “It could be, but Slytherin himself was more pragmatic than what he’s been made into. He was more about protecting wizards from hostile muggles than preserving the purity of magical blood.”

Bill and Mr. Lovegood stared at her. “How do you know that?” Bill asked in surprise.

“The Hogwarts house elves. They keep their own traditions. And they live longer than wizards. Fewer generations to distort the story. I can’t help it if no one else thinks to ask them.”

“House elves!” Mr. Lovegood said. “I can’t believe I never thought of that. The untapped well of knowledge they must have…”

“So…I know Gryffindor’s sword presents itself to a brave Gryffindor in time of need,” Harry said.

“And Ravenclaw’s diadem is reputed to enhance your intelligence,” Bill said.

“No, no, no!” Mr. Lovegood cut it. “It removes the restraints on your mind so that you can use it to its full potential.”

“Right,” he said sceptically. “But it’s a clue. If the elves’ story is true, then I’d guess that Slytherin’s locket has some kind of protective powers. It would take more time than I can spare to figure out what they are, though. If it even still works after what Hermione did to it.”

Hermione blushed. The locket was physically fine, but it was hard to tell what shape it was in magically. However, her spell _should_ have severed the soul fragment cleanly and left the rest intact. That was both the intent and the construction of what she had created.

 _Avada Kedavra_ was the invention of medieval dark wizards for the purpose of quickly putting down an enemy in a duel or a muggle witch-hunt. The words were clearly mocking the muggle practice of the time of writing _Abracadabra_ on an amulet over a sick person in a futile attempt at a healing spell. _Abracadabra_ seemed to be bastardised Aramaic for “I will create as was spoken”, which didn’t make a whole lot of sense for healing—possibly an oblique way of invoking God. However, the Killing Curse had clearly been twisted further to sound like the Latin _Aveo Cadaver_ : “I wish for a corpse”.

 _Magrisha_ was Hebrew, but it was near enough to Aramaic, and _Kedavra_ actually closer to correct Hebrew than _Cadabra_ was according to her Hebrew dictionary. Putting them together, and she was much closer to the linguistic intent of the spell: “I expel as was spoken.”

Once they were all settled, they returned to the factory floor, where Bill removed Ravenclaw’s diadem, setting it on the concrete. It had a pull to it—stronger than the locket when closed—but it showed nowhere near the same level of fighting back.

“This one’s not goblin-made too, is it?” Hermione asked.

“No. Definitely human-made. I can tell just by looking. It’s magically reinforced, but I can’t see any reason your spell won’t work as is.”

“Good. Harry, are you ready with the fang?”

“Yes, but if it does what the last one did—”

“I know, but just in case. Everyone get ready.” She raised her red oak wand again and focused. Her loathing of You-Know-Who, her disgust at how he had defiled such a valuable artifact, her desire to cleanse it with a metaphorical fire. _“Magrisha Kedavra!”_

The spell struck true, and this time, nothing blocked it. The black mist appeared without the aid of her detection spell and seemed to shred itself in midair. There was a terrible shriek and the same feeling of something dark flying away, and it evaporated before their eyes.

 _“Atma Prakata,”_ Hermione cast. Nothing. Although she noticed the end of her red oak wand was slightly blackened. “Well…That was anticlimactic.”

“I’m not complaining,” Harry said.

Hermione stepped towards the diadem, looking down at it. Its draw of dark magic was conspicuously gone now, but something else, purer and simpler, remained. Plain curiosity. She started to reach out to it, but Bill stopped her.

“Wait!” he said. He scanned it carefully with his wand. “Okay,” he reported. “No curses. Looks like it was just a bog-standard horcrux, if there is such a thing—the soul piece and nothing else.”

It was strange, Hermione thought. Two of You-Know-Who’s horcruxes were somehow _more_ than “ordinary” horcruxes, actively attacking those who encountered them. But the other two—one had a conventional, if horrific dark curse to protect it, and the other had nothing at all. Had You-Know-Who been experimenting? Seeing what he could do with pieces of his own soul? Nagini was another experiment when she thought about it. An _intentional_ living horcrux—something that, if it had ever been done at all, was not referenced in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. Indeed, it seemed that Nagini ought to still be mortal, though perhaps the horcrux would remain bound to her body unless severed by something that could destroy one.

She picked up the diadem and examined it closely. It was a silver circlet with an eagle rising over the front in fine silver filigree and diamonds. There were…two hundred and twenty-four diamonds (it took her a minute to count them), the largest of them several carats, and three large sapphires down the front. On the front of the band was inscribed the Ravenclaw motto:

 

 _Wit Beyond Measure is Man_ _’s Greatest Treasure_

 

When they reentered the makeshift sitting room, Mr. Lovegood gasped and leapt to his feet upon seeing it. “Merlin’s beard! It’s the lost diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw! How one earth did you get this?” He took it in hand and scrutinised it even more than Hermione had.

“It’s a long story, Mr. Lovegood,” she said. “You-Know-Who got hold of it years ago. We’re honestly not sure how. But we found where he hid it, and now it’s clean of the curse he put on it.”

Mr. Lovegood’s eyes grew wide. “You-Know-Who defiled _this_ treasure? Miss Granger, you have done a great service to Ravenclaws everywhere. Without your intervention, this would have been lost to us forever.”

She nodded sadly. “Using historical artifacts wasn’t the smartest thing he could have done, but he had one thing going for him: people would be extremely reluctant to destroy them if they had to.”

“I’ve always dreamed of seeing the genuine article,” he mused.

“I think we should use it.”

Everyone turned and stared at Hermione, and then everyone began talking at once.

“Are you crazy?”

“We don’t know what that thing _does!_ ”

“It was part of You-Know-Who!”

“It could still be dangerous.”

“Guys! Enough!” she shouted over them. “Bill, you said it was safe?”

Bill self-consciously took a step back. “I said it was clean of the horcrux and any curses. We don’t know what the diadem itself does. According to legend, only Ravenclaw herself could use it. It drove everyone else mad.”

“I don’t think this is a good idea, Hermione,” George said.

“Listen,” she said. “Ever since we found that diadem, I thought that if I could cleanse the taint from it, maybe I could use it to help me—” she cast a sidelong glance at Mr. Lovegood. “—with my _other_ project. If it really enhances your wisdom or intelligence or just removes the filters like Mr. Lovegood says, it could be the exact thing I need.”

“But do you really need it, though? I mean, you’re…you.”

“George, what I just did was _child_ _’s play_ compared with the other problem I have to solve. Please, I need to do this.”

George acquiesced and pulled back, but Mr. Lovegood was still hesitant. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, Miss Granger,” he said. “You aren’t even a Ravenclaw.”

“Mr. Lovegood,” Hermione told him evenly. “The Sorting Hat told me twice that my strongest trait was Ravenclaw through and through. It wasn’t because I was unworthy of Ravenclaw that I’m a Gryffindor. Please, will you let me try it.”

Mr. Lovegood slowly handed the diadem over. “Okay, Miss Granger,” he said. “But be careful. Even I don’t know what this will really do to you.”

“I’m taking that thing off of you if something goes wrong,” George said.

Hermione nodded and took a step back from the group. As they watched, she carefully placed it on her head.

She froze, and the world exploded around her. She transfixed with the force of the magic as the enormous amount of sensory information that was normally filtered down to a trickle by her subconscious mind hit her full in the face like a fire-hose. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling were blinding her. She had to block them out entirely with her hands to get rid of them. Even having them in the corner of her eye, she couldn’t ignore them. They made a whining sound at the top of her range of hearing that she couldn’t shut out of her mind, and worse, they were all sorts of dissonant frequencies. The second A above the piano, slightly flat. The second B-flat above the piano, slightly sharp. The third C-sharp above the piano, a lot flat.

She’d never had perfect pitch before.

There was a low-pitched hum pervading the room—the lowest G on the piano, but a lot sharp—fifty hertz. The mains hum. The ticking of the clock, the shuffling of people’s shoes, her own blood pounding in her ears—they were all vying for her attention until she couldn’t keep track of any of them, and she almost thought she’d gone deaf, surrounded by noise.

The lines between the floor tiles stood out like neon lights. Fourteen lines horizontally by seventeen lines vertically with fourteen whole tiles cut off by the shape of the room. One hundred ninety-four whole tiles on the floor, sixty-two partial. The rectangular pattern of books on the bookcase made her dizzy to the point that she couldn’t pick out any details from it even though she was sure she could recreate it perfectly if she had to draw it. She could _remember_ every line and curve of the room the way it normally was, and the slightest detail out of place stood out like a sore thumb.

She couldn’t breathe! The dusty smell of the factory floor made her cough. A faint whiff of Mr. Lovegood’s bizarre aftershave made her gag. The smell of the hot cocoa she’d loved so much a few minutes ago was overpowering, and the spices burned her nose. And she didn’t adapt to them like she normally did to smells. They just lingered. She dragged her tongue across her sleeve to try to get the aftertaste out of her mouth, but that only made it worse because of the fuzz that got in her mouth.

She stumbled backwards, nearly falling over, losing track of her body in the chaos. She felt her balance tipping every time she moved her head, and her clothes itched like goat’s hair. She felt every place where her blouse was rubbing against her skin distinctly. She fell against the wall and squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her ears to block out the sounds as she slid down to sit in a foetal position. She grabbed her wand and waved it, and the lights went out instantly, although daylight still streamed through the window. A scream pierced her ears. She waved it again, and the sound vanished. A third time, and the air was clear, and she could _think_.

In the dark and quiet, it was like flipping a switch. Hermione’s mind was suddenly clearer than she had ever felt it. Numbers flowed before her nearly the same as always, but everything around them had changed. She could remember _everything_. She could have recited _Numerology and Grammatica_ word for word if she wanted to as surely as if it were in front of her. Every conversation with Dumbledore on horcruxes and rituals came back crystal clear. She could hold far more complex geometric patterns in her mind. Rearranging molecules would be _so_ much easier like this.

Just as she was beginning to understand what the diadem truly did, the sound returned, and the air was filled with shouting.

 _“GAAH!”_ she yelled. She dropped her wand and clapped her hands over her ears again.

A hand touched her, and she slapped it away so hard she scratched it. The fingers were like spiders crawling over her skin, but worse. Not painful, exactly, but so intense it might as well have been. There was a shout.

She cracked her eyes open. George was in front of her. She recognised his face. The boy she loved. The one who didn’t have the whisker-like scars. His facial expression was in there somewhere. His eyes were wide, and his mouth was turned down, but there was so much going on that she couldn’t parse what it meant. His lips moved, but she could barely register his voice.

_Her name._

_Hermione. Queen of Sicily in Shakespeare_ _’s_ The Winter’s Tale _._

_Her my oh knee._

_Huh eh er mm ah ee oh nn ee. Each a distinct sound._

All four versions came through at the same time, and she couldn’t pick out which one was important.

“Hermione!”

The spell was broken. George tossed the diadem aside, and it clattered on the floor.

“George?”

“Merlin, Hermione! Are you okay? Don’t scare me like that! I _told_ you that diadem was dangerous!”

“I was fine until you took down the Imperturbable Charm,” she protested.

“You were _not_ fine. You were whining like a wounded puppy, and then you…what _did_ you do to the lights, anyway?”

Hermione furrowed her brow, trying to sort through the storm that had enveloped her before. _“Pagonargyros,”_ she said. “It freezes the mercury vapour in the fluorescent lights. They’ll come on again in a few minutes.”

“When did you come up with that?”

“Just now.” She reached for the diadem, but George grabbed her wrist.

“No! Didn’t you see what that did?” he snapped.

“I’m not going to put it on again, George—not out here, anyway.” She grabbed it and held it up for them to see. “You were right, Mr. Lovegood. The diadem suppresses the barrier between the conscious and subconscious mind. When I put it on, I was overwhelmed because I couldn’t block out everything around me from my senses. But once I quieted it down, I could _understand_ it. It gave me photographic memory and perfect pitch and probably a bunch of other stuff.”

“Really? All that?” Mr. Lovegood said. He examined it again and started to put it on his own head.

Hermione tried to stop him. “Mr. Lovegood, I don’t think that’s a good—”

“Oh, God! I can see forever!” he gasped.

“—idea,” she groaned.

His reaction was different from hers. He stood airily on his toes with arms outstretched as if he were revelling in the waves washing over him.

Then he fainted.

He fell to the floor. Hermione quickly pulled the diadem off of him, and he popped up at once.

“Ahh!” He jumped up on the sofa and curled up, shaking.

“Mr. Lovegood?” said Bill.

“Wrackspurts. Wrackspurts everywhere,” he muttered to himself, not seeming to see any of them and cowering deeper into the sofa.

“Okay, I take it back, Hermione,” George said. “You handled it better than he did.”

She nodded, then noticed the bemused looks on the others’ faces and explained. “The subconscious mind actually has enormous powers of calculation, sensory perception, and memory,” she said. “You know the term ‘idiot savant’?” They nodded. “Well, they’re not idiots, but they are people with mental skills that seem superhuman. They’re wrongly called idiots because they’re often living with some kind of mental condition--autism or sometimes just a bad head injury. There are stories of muggles who get hit in the head really hard and suddenly, they can multiply large numbers in their heads, completely out of the blue.”

“Like you?” asked George.

“Yes, but no. _I_ worked for it, while they can do it naturally. I read up about it quite a bit before I went to Hogwarts. There was even a fictionalised muggle film about it. The people who study such things believe that the subconscious mind has all of these superhuman abilities, but they’re suppressed—just like how the brain filters out the vast majority of the sensory information we receive and only keeps the important stuff. It has to or—” She motioned to Mr. Lovegood, who was slowly recovering. “—we’d go insane.”

“But the diadem removes all of those filters,” Bill reasoned.

“Yes. It unlocks all of those latent abilities, but it’s too much for your conscious mind to handle. You collapse from sensory overload—or whatever it is happened to _him_. Except _I_ _’ve_ spent _years_ training myself with my calculation skill. And then I learnt Occlumency on top of that. I’ve taught myself to process the flood of information, just enough to make some sense of it. If I’m in a dark, quiet place, anyway. Then I can actually make some use of this.”

“You really invented that spell on the spot?” Bill asked. Hermione nodded.

“Is that good?” Harry said.

“Is it good? Harry, I’ve _never_ seen anyone invent a spell that fast before. Not ever her. I think she’s right. You’ll want to keep an eye on her, but I think you should let her use the diadem. If anyone can use an artifact that only worked for Rowena Ravenclaw herself, it’s Hermione Granger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Magrisha Kedavra: Approximately Hebrew for “I expel as was spoken.” Magrisha is the present active causative feminine form of GRSH, “to expel.” Gofanon1 later alerted me to the fact that I should have used the intensive Megrashet instead of the causative. I’ve decided that this is a mistake on Hermione’s part in-story, but it doesn’t affect the spell.
> 
> JK Rowling mistakenly claimed that the etymology of Avada Kedavra was “Let the thing be destroyed.” However, the most likely etymology of Avada Kedavra/Abracadabra appears to come from the Aramaic for “I will create as was spoken.” ‘Abra appears to be the first-person active causative future form of the Hebrew (or Aramaic) BRA, “to create”, while Gidabra or Gidavra is the second-person passive intensive past form of DBR, “to speak”.
> 
> Pagonargyros: stylised from the Greek for “Freeze quicksilver.”


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling wins gold for fiction writing, but sadly doesn’t place for maths.
> 
> Finally! These next three chapters have been fighting me tooth and nail every step of the way. I must have rewritten my outline four times because I just couldn’t get the story to do what I wanted it to do. Every plan I came up with, it would throw back in my face and tell me, “No, that won’t work because of this.” I know that might be a sign that it’s gone wrong somewhere, but there are several things that really need to happen in this section for the larger narrative, so I pushed through it. Writers are problem-solvers in the end, and I think I finally found the solution.

George entered Hermione’s loft and flipped on the lights.

“Gah! Not the lights!” Hermione said. She flicked her wand, and they switched off again before he could react.

“Sorry,” he said.

The loft was lit only by an array of candles, all of them behind and to the sides of Hermione, out of her field of view but arranged so that the blackboard on her wall was fairly evenly illuminated. The slow movement of a Mozart symphony was playing from somewhere, and everything in the room was magically neat and straight.

Hermione held her wand like a pen, levitating a piece of chalk, which moved in perfect concert with it. She didn’t want to get chalk dust on her hands, and she couldn’t stand to wear gloves. The smell of the chalk dust was bad enough. So this was the best compromise solution. With the help of Ravenclaw’s diadem, she was doing maths at breakneck speed. Granted, she was also wearing a nightdress in the middle of the day.

“Hi, Hermione. How are you doing?” her boyfriend said. He touched her on the shoulder, but she smacked him away with an annoyed sound. “Ow! Sorry,” he said. “I keep forgetting about that.”

“It’s not complicated, George,” she said. “I don’t like being touched when I’m wearing the diadem.”

“I know. I can tell. It’s just strange. Are…are you still in your pyjamas?”

“They’re more comfortable than my day wear. I still had to cut the tags off, though. Have you ever noticed how itchy tags are?”

“No, I can’t say I have,” he said uncomfortably.

“I didn’t either until now, but they are.”

“Hermione, are you sure that diadem isn’t affecting you?” George said with concern. “You always act…odd when you wear it.”

“I’m trying to cope with hypersensitivity, George. Too much effort to act normal. It goes away when I take it off.”

George reached over and took the diadem off her head. She yelped and snatched it back before her mind caught up with her. “Ugh,” she said, shaking herself out. She winced and rubbed her head.

“You okay?” he asked.

“…Yes? I just always feel like I’m in a fog when I take that thing off. Losing the hypersensitivity is good, but losing the photographic memory…It takes a minute to feel normal again.”

“I think you might be overdoing it.”

“I’m getting better,” she insisted. “At first I couldn’t even use the candles because of the flickering. I’m teaching myself to function with it.”

“Just so I don’t lose the real you, Hermione,” George said, and he kissed her on the forehead. “I don’t care how useful it is. That diadem freaks me out a little.”

“I’ll be okay, George. I always take it off when I’m not working.” She kissed him back, on the lips this time, and he held her close. She _definitely_ appreciated feeling more normal when he did that. She felt sorry for Harry, having to be separated from Ginny all this time. She really appreciated having George here with her. It was…comfortable, she thought, in a very difficult time. She didn’t exactly feel the Earth move when he kissed her, but—

She pulled back from him silently, her eyes wide.

“Something wrong?”

“One minute, please,” she said, holding up a finger. She put Ravenclaw’s diadem back on her head, closed her eyes, and concentrated.

“Hermione?” George said.

Her eyes snapped open. “Bill,” she said.

“Uh…I’m George?”

“No, I need to talk to Bill,” she repeated. “I know how to rescue Luna.”

“What? Luna? You do?”

“I think. I think I know.” She studied the blackboard and waved her wand in a wide arc. _“Evanesco!”_ The whole board was blanked instantly.

“Don’t you need that?” George said.

“Photographic memory.” She started drawing with a levitated piece of chalk. “Get Bill!”

* * *

Bill entered the loft and just stared. Hermione was standing in her nightdress, wearing the Diadem over hair sticking out everywhere, frantically drawing with a levitated piece of chalk, creating a highly detailed map of the British Isles complete with ley lines and major magical sites and population centres.

“Hermione?” he said. “You said you needed to talk to me?”

She spun around to face him. “Ah-ah,” she said, and she motioned for him to step to the side. He looked confused, but inched sideways until he was standing between the candles. “There,” she said. “Stay there.”

“Um…”

“Bill, what happens when you move an active rune stone.”

“When you—excuse me?”

“If you pick up an active rune stone and move it—like one of the milestones along the ley lines.”

“Well, you’d…you’d put stress on the ley lines. If it’s tied in properly, an active stone would drag the ley line with it and bend it.”

“How much stress?” she asked. “Enough to open a hole in wards?”

“If they were big wards that were tied directly into the ley lines, sure. That kind of stress would weaken anything tied to it. Wait, you told George said this was about Luna? You can’t do that to Malfoy Manor. The Ministry monitors the entire national network for any damage. They’d notice before you got anywhere.”

Hermione smiled. “ _We_ don’t have to move them. They’ve already been moved. Have you ever heard of continental drift?”

Bill stared blankly. “Continental drift?”

She pointed at the adjacent blackboard, which seemed to have some kind of cutaway drawing of the Earth on it. Bill took a step forward.

“Hey!” she stopped him and pointed. He stepped back between the candles. “Don’t block the candles. I need even lighting. Too much flickering gives me a headache. Anyway. The continents…are not fixed,” she said dramatically. “The British Isles, all of Europe, and most of Asia all comprise a single, massive slab of rock, twenty miles thick and stretching all the way from here to Indonesia. And this slab _moves_ more or less eastward at a rate of about one inch per year.”

“Continents moving?” Bill burst out. “That’s preposterous!”

“That’s what muggle scientists said until about thirty years ago. They were wrong. What do you think an earthquake is? It’s the continents moving. They float on top of the molten interior of the Earth, and as it flows, it pushes the rock on top of them.”

“It pushes a six thousand mile long slab of rock that’s wedged in with other giant slabs of rock?” he said sceptically.

“On those scales, over millions of years, even rock behaves like a fluid. Please take my word for it. The British Isles are moving east, _under_ the ley lines, at about one inch per year. How old is Malfoy Manor, Bill?”

“Well, they came over with the Normans, and they were rich even then. Probably about nine hundred years…So in that time, the anchor stones would have supposedly moved about seventy five feet, dragging the ley lines with them. That’s not a lot.”

“But that’s not all,” Hermione insisted. “Most of the milestones were laid down by the Romans two thousand years ago, and the oldest stone circles are five thousand years old.”

Bill’s eyes widened. “Of course, and repairs to the network would have mislaid the stones little by little over centuries. The ley lines have been bent by a patchwork of rune stones displaced as much as five hundred feet from true great circles. That could put a dent in any wards short of Hogwarts. Hell, Hogwarts itself could be affecting the global network.”

“Wait a minute,” Harry interrupted. He’d come in with Bill, but he’d been nearly lost through most of the conversation. “Are you telling me that Hermione just discovered a weakness in all wards everywhere?”

“I…I can barely believe it myself, but…if she’s right about the continents moving—”

“Oh, she’s right. I learnt it in muggle primary school.”

“Bloody hell, she has! But you can see why. I mean, who would’ve ever thought of that? …That would actually explain a few things I’ve seen in my cursebreaking days.”

“I imagine it would,” Hermione said. “And Harry, it’s a problem that was always there, but I’m guessing it’s not big enough to notice if you don’t know what to look for. Muggle schools have only been teaching it for the past twenty years or so. Even your mother probably never learnt it.”

“Oh. Huh,” he said.

“So Bill, do you think you could get through the wards at Malfoy Manor?” Hermione asked.

“Maybe,” he said. “If I knew where to look. You said the motion was east. Do you know the exact direction?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s very hard to measure for obvious reasons. But it’s probably within…thirty degrees?”

“Hmm. That’ll make it harder. I might have to find the weak point on site.”

“See what you can do,” Hermione said. “You can work with Dobby. He can’t get into the Manor anymore, but he knows the layout and something of the wards themselves.”

“Okay, I think I can work with that,” Bill said. “I’d like to talk to Ron, though. If we want to do this, he can help plan it…Wow, this might just be able to work.”

“Great,” she replied. “Oh, while you’re here, I want to run some things by you about Harry’s problem, too.”

Bill stared for a moment. “Well, I don’t know if I’m as qualified to help with that.”

“I trust your advice, Bill,” Hermione said. “And now that I…don’t have Septima, I’d really appreciate your help. It’s hard to do all of this alone.”

He shrugged and said, “Well…Thank you. I’m flattered. I’ll help you any way I can. I don’t know how much help I’ll be with the horcrux problem, but with this…I think we might be able to pull off saving Luna.”

* * *

“Absolutely not!” Kingsley said.

“What? Why not?” Hermione said.

“Why not? Has it not occurred to you that You-Know-Who uses Malfoy Manor as a base of operations?”

Hermione’s face fell. She’d been so caught up in her “brilliant” idea that she’d been blind to the obvious pitfall.

“Wait, seriously? He’s still there?” said Ron. “But Lucius is disgraced, and Draco’s _dead_. Why would he bother?”

“Money,” Hermione grumbled. “They’re still his richest followers. Dammit.” Could they find some way to lure him away? Or even just verify he was away? No, that would be nearly as dangerous as attacking the Manor blind. There had to be _something_. They’d all dropped the ball there. Bill apparently hadn’t known, the Twins hadn’t thought it through, and Harry himself—well, she didn’t really know.

For his part, Harry sat quietly as they wrestled with the fatal flaw in their plan, but suddenly, he spoke up: “I think there’s a way it will still work.”

Everyone stopped. “How?” Kingsley asked.

“Because You-Know-Who doesn’t sleep there.”

“What?” said Ron.

“How can you know that?” asked Bill.

“He’s too paranoid,” Harry said. “He’ll sleep alone, where no one can stab him in the back.”

Kingsley closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Harry, we can’t just rely on your intuition about him.”

“My intuition’s been pretty good, sir,” he said.

“Not good enough to risk something like this,” Kingsley said.

“Could someone watch from a distance outside the wards?” Ron suggested. “See when he leaves without being seen themselves?”

“That doesn’t sound much better,” he said sceptically.

“No, that could work,” Harry said. “He’s got to leave the wards to Apparate even if he’s keyed in, right?”

Bill nodded. “If the wards are standard ones,” he said.

“Unless he takes the Floo,” Kingsley pointed out.

They paused and considered that. “I don’t think he’d use the Floo,” Harry said. “I’m not as sure about that, but if he does Apparate out, we’ll be able to see it. He might expect someone to attack him, but he won’t be expecting anyone to be waiting for him to leave because he won’t think anyone can break in.”

Hermione turned to Harry in surprise. She’d never been as confident in his intuition as he was himself, especially about You-Know-Who, but that made good strategic sense regardless. The whole point of this plan was that they could sneak without being noticed by using a security flaw no wizard would even think was possible. It wasn’t something they’d be watching for.

Kingsley looked resigned, but a little thoughtful. “ _If_ ,” he stressed, “we can see You-Know-Who leaving Malfoy Manor without being spotted…Who would you expect to go on this mission?”

“Not Harry,” Hermione said quickly. “We’re not making that mistake again.”

“No, not Harry,” Bill agreed. “Me for sure. I need to be there to cut through the wards. Ideally, Hermione, too.”

“I think it would be nearly as bad an idea to send Hermione as it would to send Harry,” Kingsley said.

“She’s the only other person who understands the calculations,” Bill insisted. “I might need her help. I suppose she wouldn’t have to come in, though.” He turned to her: “Sorry, but he has a point. You’re Undesirable Number Two, and they know you’re running with Harry.”

“And you said how important your other project is, whatever it is,” Kingsley added.

“Yes, that’s fair,” she admitted. “Dobby is the other definite. Malfoy Manor is Unplottable, so we’ll need his help getting _to_ the location. Other than that…maybe just ask for volunteers?”

“Hmm…” he said. “I suppose I can talk to Hestia about setting a watch. Would your elf be able to do it?”

“Dobby? I’m sure he could. I’m not sure he’d be any less noticeable than a person with an invisibility cloak, though.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Is there anything else?”

“Er, there _is_ one other problem,” Hermione pointed out. “Luna’s still underage until the thirteenth of February. If we Apparate her out, they’ll be able to track us. She’ll have to fly.” _I should have broken the Trace on her when I had the chance._

“Can we wait until her birthday?” Kingsley said.

“That might be too late.” It wasn’t Hermione who said it, but Harry. “We don’t know why they’re still keeping her _now_ with _Liberation_ being done. Who knows what could happen by then?”

Kingsley sighed: “Fine. I’m not making any promises, but I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Ron stood with the raiding party in the woods just outside the wards of Malfoy Manor, his whole body tense with anticipation, waiting for Bill to give the signal to go. When Hermione had told him he would do a better job than she would at planning this raid, he’d been flattered—eager, even—but now, he was terrified. People died on missions like this, and no matter how well he’d planned it, he was terrified he was going to get someone killed.

Mum had been livid that Ron was going on this mission—almost as livid as Fleur had been that Bill was going, and a cranky, pregnant part-Veela was the last thing anyone wanted to deal with. But Bill at least had an excuse. He really was the only person they had who could crack the wards (besides maybe Fleur herself), even with whatever weird trick Hermione had discovered. Ron, however, had had a massive row with Mum and nearly walked out on Aunt Muriel’s house to join Hermione’s group. He wasn’t needed, she’d said, and to be honest, she was right. But this was _his_ plan, and if he was going to be putting people in danger, he’d be unworthy of Gryffindor if he wasn’t willing to go himself.

He’d won the fight, and now, he almost wished he hadn’t, just like he almost wished Elphias Doge hadn’t reported back that You-Know-Who and several other Death Eaters on the Azkaban escapee list had left Malfoy Manor hours ago.

 

 _“The wild card is who’s going to be there,” Ron told the volunteers at the briefing. “If You-Know-Who isn’t there, we_ think _it_ _’ll only be ol’ Lucy and Narcissa. The danger is if the Lestranges, or some of the other Azkaban escapees are on site.”_

_“We know for sure that Dolohov, Mulciber, and Travers have other family they’re staying with,” Kingsley said. “The Lestranges have their own manor, and Dupont is dead.” He was the one Hermione had knocked off his broom. “That narrows it down to Osbert, Pettigrew, Pyrites, and Rookwood, if any of them are there.”_

_“We hope,” Emmeline Vance spoke up._

_“Yes, we hope. We can’t say for sure how many people are in the house, but even so, they’re not likely to keep a guard, so they should all be asleep.”_

 

That was the hope, anyway. According to Doge’s report, the lights lit in Malfoy Manor suggested that more than just the Malfoys were there, but also that they weren’t playing host to half a dozen other Death Eaters. It was a serious uncertainty, but all the lights were put out two hours ago, so they had a good chance. Ron was still on edge.

He looked over to where Bill and Hermione were working. It was pitch black, so he could barely see. They couldn’t risk lighting a wand so the only light came from a crescent moon rising in the east. “Well, you were right, Hermione,” Bill whispered. “I’d never have noticed if I didn’t know what to look for, but there’s definitely strain on the wards. Even if I _had_ seen it, I would have blamed it on misplaced ward stones, but…”

“In a way, that’s exactly what it is,” Hermione whispered back.

“True,” he said.

“Can you get through?”

“I’m not seeing the weak point yet. I need to look at how the stress is aligned.” Bill waved his wand back and forth, and a faint shimmer of light appeared at the edge of the wards, barely visible even in this deep darkness. There were fuzzy lines in the air every ten or twenty feet, which disintegrated into a swirl like a cloud of dust whenever anything passed through them and slowly reformed in its wake. These were the ley lines themselves—the smallest, weakest ones far below the level of what anyone considered important except the most meticulous warders. “This way,” Bill said.

They stepped through the trees as quietly as they could: eight of them, including Dobby—almost certainly more than were in the house, though  probably not as skilled. Ron surveyed the group. Bill and Hermione were needed to get through the wards. Dobby knew the location and helped them to Apparate in. And George? George had insisted on coming.

 

_“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Hermione said. “I know you’re capable, but this is a stealth mission, and too many people could be as dangerous as too few.”_

_“I’m not letting you go on a dangerous mission alone,” George told her._

_“I won’t even be going through the wards,” she said. “I’ll be holding the line at the exit point.”_

_“Then I can be your bodyguard,” he said._

_“I don’t need a—”_

_“Actually, he has a point, Hermione,” Kingsley said. “After seeing how the last few missions have gone, I don’t want you there alone. Especially since you’ll be the highest-value target on this mission. You and George can hold the exfil point together, and he’ll be one more wand  in case something goes wrong.”_

_“Make that two more wands,” Fred spoke up. “I’m going too.”_

_Kingsley shook his head:_ _“No, Fred,” he said solemnly. “Hermione isn’t the only one who needs a bodyguard. I need you to stay with Harry.”_

_“He’ll be behind the Fidelius,” Fred protested._

_“This isn’t just about the mission. If something goes_ really _wrong, God forbid, we_ _’ll need to have one of you still out here to help Harry. I’m making the call.”_

_Ron could just barely hear Harry mutter,_ _“Wouldn’t matter anyway.” He wanted to tell his best mate to buck up, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. It was kind of true if they lost Hermione._

_“You can’t split the Dynamic Duo,” Fred cut into his thoughts. Hermione had to fight to keep from giggling for some unknown reason. “C’mon Ron. Tell him you need me on the mission.”_

_Ron frowned and shook his head sadly. Discretion was the better part of valour here._ _“I’m sorry, bro, but Kingsley’s the boss. And he’s right. We need to be careful about how we distribute our forces.”_

 

Fred had sulked for a while, and George wasn’t too chuffed either, but they eventually agreed. That didn’t make Ron feel much better. Splitting up the Twins just felt wrong, somehow. But he had to admit Kingsley had the measure of the situation.

The rest of the group were volunteers from the Order: Elphias Doge, Emmeline Vance, and Cedric Diggory. It was a shame Kingsley was the only Auror they had left who was in full fighting form. Doge and Vance were no pushovers, though. They had fought with the Order in the first war, and they were _still alive_. Ron turned and looked as Cedric as he passed. Cedric was the weak link here, but he had volunteered, and others hadn’t.

 

_“Hi, Cedric,” Hermione said. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”_

_“We’re here to save Luna, aren’t we?” he asked. “She’s my friend. We grew up as neighbours. I want to help her.”_

_“Of course,” she responded. “But are you sure you’re up to this?” She glanced at his prosthetic arm._

_Cedric twirled his wand in his left hand._ _“I’ve been practising,” he said, “and I made it through the last fight okay.”_

_She shrugged._ _“Well, if Kingsley and Ron are okay with it, I guess.”_

Ron had accepted him, but it wasn’t ideal. It was true, they’d brought Hestia to the raid on the Ministry, and she had the same handicap, but she was also a trained Auror, and Cedric wasn’t. Still, it was hard to get volunteers for this mission, so he took what he could get.

They continued walking along the perimeter of the wards, Bill leading the way, scanning the magical terrain and muttering to himself. “No…no, no…this doesn’t look right.”

“What’s wrong?” Ron whispered.

“I’m not seeing the weak point where it should be. There’s some stress on the wards, but not enough. Hermione, you said it was on the west side?”

“ _You_ said it was, Bill,” Hermione insisted.

“I said I should be opposite the direction of motion.”

“Which is east,” she said. “I’m certain it’s east. The Atlantic Ocean is widening. Europe is moving farther away from America.”

Ron still thought this whole idea of continents moving sounded absolutely mad. The other volunteers had been shocked when they heard. How could anything move the solid rock of the Earth? But Bill and Hermione said it would work, and he believed them. He was starting to wonder, though. They weren’t where they had expected to be, getting farther and farther from their planned entry point.

“Well, it looks like it’s in this direction, but we’re already pretty far from due west.”

Hermione sighed almost inaudibly. “Maybe it’s southwest, then. I can’t imagine it’s past there.”

Bill shook his head, but kept going. “Alright, then. I’ll keep looking,” he said.

The weak point turned out to be pretty much southwest of the Manor—much farther south than Hermione had originally predicted. She admitted that the motions of continents weren’t measured very accurately, so she’d been wrong about the direction, but not the distance. The muggles supposedly understood it pretty well in its broad strokes.

In any case, Bill had found the bend in the wards that was caused by the bending of the ley lines—or so he said—and he was confident that his curse-breaking skills were up to the task of putting a kink in them large enough to slip through. Ron then turned to the rest of the team.

“Okay,” he whispered to them. “It looks like we’ll be ready to go soon. We’re gonna have farther to run to get to the house than we expected, but we’re keeping the plan the same. We’ll go under Disillusionment. Even in this light, they might spot something if someone gets up and looks out the window.”

The rest of the group nodded. Dobby wouldn’t be Disillusioned, exactly, but elves had ways of going about unseen, and he could be right scary if he wanted. Doge, Vance, and Cedric all got ready, Disillusioning themselves. Bill worked meticulously, turning the bend in the wards into a kink and the kink into a gap large enough to walk through. Now that he’d found it, his calculations were perfectly accurate, or so it seemed.

“A little more, and…got it,” he whispered. “Okay, it’s ready.” There was a faint red glow in the air with a gap little more than a foot wide in it. “It’s scary how easy that is.”

“You really broke into the wards of the richest dark family in the country?” Doge whispered.

“Yeah, but barely,” Bill said. “If the Manor were any younger, I don’t think it would’ve worked. As it is, this is as far as I can open it. It’s like opening a gap in a curtain.” He marked rune on the ground with his foot where the gap was—an Eihwaz rune, Ron noted: strength and stability. That should help hold it open. “Okay, we’re ready, but don’t touch the sides. Hermione, you’re set?”

“Yes,” she said. “When the prisoners come out, I can guide them by laser signal without anyone else seeing. You know my Unsealing Spell?”

“Yeah. _Atithikhula_.”

“Good. There’s not much that’ll stop it, but it’s not very discreet, so don’t use it unless you have to.”

They were ready. “Alright, let’s move,” Ron said. They slipped through the gap one by one, being careful not to touch the magical fields of the wards, and headed for the house. He went over the steps of the plan in his head, making sure he hadn’t missed anything.

 

_“Alright, so Bill and Hermione get us through the wards,” Ron continued. “It’ll be different from the Ministry because it’s smaller, and we’ve only got one target.”_

_“What about the Malfoys?” Cedric cut in._

_Kingsley shook his head._ _“Too dangerous. They could alert You-Know-Who in a second if we let them. It’s risky enough just sneaking in at two in the morning.”_

Crossing the grounds was the most dangerous part in one way. They had to cross a lot of open ground, and no matter how careful they were, there was always the chance they could be spotted, especially with six of them. But they weren’t noticed, either by the sleeping white peacocks outside, or by anyone in the house. They came to the back door, and Bill opened it with ease. The Malfoys weren’t worried about anyone already inside the wards.

“Dobby, you’re up,” Ron whispered.

Dobby tiptoed into the house, followed by Bill. Ron looked into the scullery after them from the doorway The elf sniffed around for a minute and then opened a cupboard door. There was a squeak and a flash of red light, followed by a soft thump.

Bill motioned for them to come inside.

 

_“So here’s how we do it. We make a chain, so everyone can see the next person, and everyone acts as a lookout where they can see. Hermione and George will stay at the ward boundary in case we need help quick from outside. Dobby will go in first. The Malfoys will have a house elf, and it could be up cleaning well past midnight, but they won’t be expecting Dobby. House elves can sniff each other out. Apparently.”_

_He looked to Hermione, who nodded. She_ _’d said she’d nearly forgotten herself that house elves had a much keener sense of smell than humans._

_“So, Dobby and Bill will take care of the elf if they spot it. Cedric, you’re at the scullery door.” Ron pointed at the map Dobby had drawn of the Manor. It was lucky they had someone who knew the place inside and out better than anyone, because he used to mop the floors. “Mr. Doge, you’re at the entrance to the kitchens…”_

Cedric stood just inside the scullery door, leaving it open a crack, for minimum visibility, and Ron, Vance, and Doge followed Bill into the house. Dobby stayed in the kitchen to watch the other elf, and Doge stood watch at the entrance to the room, able to see Cedric back at the scullery and forward to the entrance hall.

Treading softly on the marble floors, they reached the entrance hall: a grand, two-storey room with wide staircases that could have fit a small house inside it. Ron silently scoffed at the extravagance of it.

 

_“Ms. Vance, you’re at the door from the hallway to the entrance hall. You’ll be the main one on watch. If one of the Malfoys is up, that’ll be the most likely place for them to run into us. Then, it’s just into the drawing room.”_

 

They left Vance behind in the entrance hall, where she could see both Doge back at the kitchen and forward into the drawing room. It was just Ron and Bill, now. Ron had assigned himself the forward-most lookout position, right behind his brother. All Bill had to do was go down into the dungeon and open the cells. They would pass the prisoners from one lookout to the next until everyone was outside the wards.

Together, Ron and Bill rolled back a heavy carpet, revealing a trapdoor in the middle of the floor. They knew that was there already. The Aurors had raided that little hiding spot in better times. Bill scanned it.

“Can you get in?” Ron breathed.

“Doesn’t look too hard,” he said. “There’s an alarm, but it’s dead simple. It’s designed to keep people in, not out.”

Ron nodded, and Bill made short work of the alarm and lock and opened the trapdoor. A stone staircase lay beyond, and he descended into the darkness. Ron kept one eye on the entrance hall and one ear on the dungeon below as he waited.

“Hello?” came a whisper from below, barely audible.

“What? Who’s there? What’s going on.” A gravelly male voice, so loud in the silent house that it made Ron wince.

“ _Shhh!_ I’m here to get you out of here.”

A pause. “Weasley?” the first voice hissed more quietly.

“ _Nagnok?_ ” Bill whispered. “I thought you were dead.”

“Hmph. It takes more than that to kill an arch-goblin, Cursebreaker.”

Nagnok? Ron vaguely recognised the name. Something to do with the Twins’ business dealings, and Bill had mentioned him once or twice from work.

“What are you doing here?” Bill said. “Wait, never mind. How many are down here?”

“Hello?” A female voice. Barely above a whisper. It might have been Luna’s. “Is someone there…? Oh, William. It’s good to see you. Mr. Ollivander, wake up.”

 _Ollivander?_ Ron mouthed. He thought he was dead, too by now.

“Ollivander?” Bill repeated.

“Huh, wha—?” an old man said.

 _“Shh!_ Mr. Ollivander. Merlin, it’s good to see you. Is anyone else down here?”

“Here. Over here.” Another woman.

“Mr. Cresswell and Miss Fawley,” Luna said.

 _High-value prisoners_ , Ron thought to himself. The Fawleys were a rich family with influence on the Wizengamot if he remembered right. And he remembered Dirk Cresswell being mentioned on the radio campaign. Head of the Goblin Liaison Office and a muggle-born. He wasn’t sure why they would keep him here instead of just killing him or sending him to Azkaban, but…come to think of it, he was probably the highest-ranked muggle-born in the Ministry right before it fell. Maybe something—

A toilet flushed upstairs.

Ron’s heart skipped a beat. He looked at Ms. Vance and saw her eyes wide with worry. They had to be visible to see the prisoners out. They couldn’t just hide. He turned back to the stairs. “Bill!” he hissed. “Someone’s awake up there. We have to hurry.”

“Damn,” his brother whispered back. “Okay, I’m close. They weren’t expecting a serious cursebreaking attack on these wards either. I just need a minute…”

Ron bit his lip to keep from tapping his foot. His wand twitched anxiously in his hand. It took about another minute before he heard the clanking of bars. A moment later, light footsteps came running up the stairs, and Luna popped into view. She looked dirty, dishevelled, and even thinner than usual, but she had a cheerful smile on her face.

“Hello, Ronald,” she whispered.

“Hi,” he said. “Quick, follow the path out. We’ll point the way.” He pointed out to where Ms. Vance was standing.

Luna quickly padded her way out. She was only wearing socks, he noticed, but she stopped when she stepped into the entrance hall. “Ron,” she whispered.

“What?” Ron hurried out to her, but when he reached the entrance hall, he stopped cold.

Emmeline Vance stood stock still in a combat stance, staring down her wand at a heavily pregnant Narcissa Malfoy.

“Stay right there, and don’t make a sound until we’re gone,” Vance whispered.

Ron came to his senses and frantically pointed for Luna to run down the hall to where Doge stood. He heard her go and another set of footsteps come up behind him.

Narcissa shook her head. “Lucius knows I came down,” she whispered tremulously. “And Bella will kill me if she thinks I had anything to do with this.”

 _Bellatrix?!_ She was supposed to be with her husband! Ron turned and ran back for the dungeon stairs, passing a surly-looking goblin as he did. “Bill!” he called down. “Narcissa’s downstairs. She says Bellatrix is here. I don’t know if it’s a bluff.”

Bill swore a little too loudly. “Go! Go! Go!” he hissed. Ron stayed, though. A man who must have been Cresswell scrambled up the stairs and ran past him. And then Bill came, helping old Mr. Ollivander hobble up the steps.

“I said _go!_ ”

“We’re going now,” Ron said. They hurried toward the exit as fast as Mr. Ollivander could go, passing Vance and a now-bound and gagged Narcissa. Ron motioned for Vance to follow and covered their retreat—first in and last out. He motioned for Doge to start running too. That picked up Cedric, and in moments, everyone was out and running across the grounds. Ron had just reached the scullery door when—

_“INTRUDERS!”_

He guessed the voice was Lucius Malfoy’s but it didn’t matter. He slammed and locked the door shut with his wand, hopefully buying a few seconds. They ran flat out for the gap in the wards. Lights in the windows flipped on in rapid succession behind them, and there were shouts from within the Manor.

The scullery door slammed open, and a tall figure stormed out. A bolt of green light whizzed past Ron’s head and exploded in the grass next to Cedric. George and Hermione were running in from the ward line. No point in stealth anymore. They threw curses over the retreating Order members’ heads. One of them slammed into the side of the Manor and set a large chunk of stone crashing down.

Another green curse exploded around their feet, but they kept running. All they had to do was reach the ward line, and they could Apparate out. Cedric and Luna reached it first, and he whisked her away. Ron just had to hope they could find an Untraceable way to get to a safe-house. Doge and a woman who must have been Fawley. Gone. Vance and the goblin. Gone.

They were almost there. Hermione and George were with them now, running with them and helping cover their retreat. More curses were flying—

_BOOM!_

Ron felt a flash of pain as he went flying through the air and slammed into the ground hard enough to knock the wind out of him. He heard a sickening crack as his wand snapped under his weight.

“Get them!” a voice roared. Ron struggled to get up, but without a wand, he couldn’t defend himself. He felt a rope tie itself around his feet. He kept trying to get up anyway.

Bill was trying to move, but his leg was crushed and bent at the wrong angle. Hermione was bleeding from her forehead as she and George struggled to fight from the ground. Cresswell was the only one on his feet. He was just at the edge of the wards, helping Ollivander get up.

“Run!” Ron yelled.

The Death Eaters were closing in. Lucius. Bellatrix. Yes, she was there. Pettigrew! That rat-bastard! And Rookwood. The Unspeakable was duelling Hermione and winning on raw power.

 _“Occulus Flammare!”_ he roared. A blazing orange curse flashed right past Hermione’s head, shattering her shield with a glancing blow. Hermione hissed forcefully, and a blue-white light lanced out and struck Rookwood’s face. But before it had any discernible effect, he shot back with, _“Hemorrhagia! Tetania!”_

Hermione dodged the deadly purple curse, but to Ron’s horror, the second one struck her in the leg as she lunged, missing her more protected torso. She went down hard, her legs seizing up and twitching uncontrollably. She let out a ragged cry of pain. George fell on top of her, trying to protect her.

Ron turned and looked back to the trees one more time. If he could get there, maybe he could do _something_. With runes, maybe. But he knew there was no way they would give in a chance. When he looked, he saw one last very strange sight—so strange he thought he might have imagined it. Ollivander snapped a twig off a tree and wrapped one of his long locks of hair around it. He grabbed Cresswell in a bear-hug. Ollivander’s hair _caught fire_. And yet, a moment later, they were gone.

Ron saw a flash of red, and everything went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Occulus Flammare: Credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.
> 
> Tetania: from “tetany”, the medical term for uncontrollable muscle contractions.


	67. Chapter 67

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling wins gold for creating a character as creepily evil as Bellatrix Lestrange. (Although Helena Bonham Carter deserves some credit too.)

Hermione was jolted back to awareness when she was dumped onto a marble floor, bruised and aching. She hadn’t really processed what was going on—only that the team had been chased out of the Manor, and she’d somehow wound up duelling Rookwood, who’d hit her with a curse she didn’t recognise. Her right leg was still locked in the contracted position, unable to move and burning from the prolonged exertion. Her left leg was painfully stiff.

She looked around. The lamps were lit, and she was lying in a room full of ornate furniture. From Dobby’s description, she was pretty sure this was the Drawing Room. There were groans and heavy footsteps around her. She turned her head side to side and saw three redheaded boys lying on the floor with Death Eaters standing around them. Bill was tied up, and George and Ron had their hands bound. Hermione’s hands were free, somehow. She reached for her holdout wand with one hand while trying to push herself up with the other when she was forced back down by a slim, black shoe on her shoulder.

“Bellatrix,” she hissed. She tried to bring her holdout wand around to point at her, but Bellatrix was faster. She grabbed Hermione’s wrist and pulled it back till it nearly snapped, and she dropped the wand.

“Ah ah ah,” Bellatrix said as if she were scolding a naughty child. “Can’t have you doing that, dearie.” She straddled Hermione’s waist and cast a spell that stuck her wrists to the floor as if they were magnets. She picked up the holdout wand and waved it, then laughed when nothing happened. “Ha! Are you really so desperate that you’re carrying a wand that doesn’t work?” She snapped it in two and tossed it aside, and it landed next to a pile of their other (thankfully intact) wands. Too far to reach.

Hermione said nothing, doing her best to murder Bellatrix with her eyes. Of course, the blood-bound wand would be dead in anyone’s hands but her own. She felt a sudden probing at her mind. She blocked it out fast with Occlumency, but even as she did, a sudden stab of panic struck her. If she Legilimized George or Ron, she might be able to dig up something about the horcruxes. They hadn’t expected to be caught so near the front lines.

“So you _are_ as smart as they say,” Bellatrix said. “You can close your mind, but let’s see what else you’re carrying.” Still straddling Hermione, she began patting her down from head to toe in a most uncomfortable fashion. It was then that she realised that she’d already been divested of her basilisk-skin coat and her expanded handbag.

“Hey!” George coughed. “Hey, get your hands off my girlfriend, you—”

_“Crucio!”_

_“AHHH!_ ”

“George! No!” Hermione screamed.

“George!”

“Stop!”

His brothers struggled as well, but each of them found themselves covered by a Death Eater: Bellatrix, Lucius, Rookwood, and Pettigrew. Three guests in the Manor. More than they’d bargained for, obviously. Narcissa was standing in the back of the room, looking nervous. Hermione saw she was pregnant. That was new. The Order hadn’t heard much about her in the past year. Had that influenced the Death Eaters’ response? It didn’t much matter when they had no wands between them.

“Aha!” Bellatrix said, finally climbing off of her. The only thing left on Hermione’s person worth taking was her stiletto. “Not bad. So, what do we have here? Undesirable Number Two in the flesh, plus Lover Boy. Isn’t that sweet? And a Cursebreaker, and…” She stared down at Ron. “What do you actually _do,_ again?”

Ron snarled at her: “Screw you, bitch! I’m running this show— _AHHH!_ ”

“ _Crucio!_ Learn some manners, boy,” Bellatrix snapped.

“Ron!”

“Stop it!”

Their shouts fell on deaf ears. Where was Dobby? Hermione didn’t see him. He might be hiding somewhere, or he might possibly be trapped outside the wards somehow. It was hard to be sure what they could do. Either way, Hermione didn’t dare call him when he’d pop directly into a crossfire.

Bellatrix knelt beside Hermione, her grinning face looming above her. “So…what are all of you doing here?” she asked.

 _Seriously?_ Hermione thought. “Freeing the prisoners. What else would we be doing?”

“Oh? No plans to burn down the house? Kill some Death Eaters? Ambush the Dark Lord?”

“No. We weren’t expecting to be seen.”

“How did you get in?” That was Lucius. Hermione turned her head and got a look at his face. He didn’t look as prim and haughty as he had before. A brief stint in Azkaban, the disgrace of failing You-Know-Who at the Department of Mysteries, and the loss of his son hadn’t done him any favours. The silk bathrobe he wore somehow made him look both more and less refined at the same time.

Hermione chuckled in spite of herself at Lucius’s question. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” she said, and that was the absolute truth. She’d barely been able to convince Bill it would work.

“Insolent mudblood!” Lucius snarled. He raised his cane and cracked it against her ribs, making her wince. “Do some fancy tricks with numbers, and you think you’re better than the _real_ wizards. Whatever it is, it won’t fool Rookwood.” He pointed to the greying, curly-haired man in a high-collared robe who was standing over Ron and George. “How did you get into my Manor?”

She coughed and glared up at him. “Your ward stones are out of alignment,” she said, knowing he wouldn’t believe her.

“Impossible! These are the finest wards in Britain.”

Hermione took a gamble and said, “Check them yourself.” They might find the flaw, but it would take time to fix and longer to understand how it affected the national network.

Lucius didn’t bite. He narrowed his eyes and stared down at her, then moved over to Rookwood. “A trick, no doubt. Rookwood, check her bag.”

Hermione’s expanded handbag was tossed near their wands. Rookwood opened it and started pulling everything out. Pettigrew moved from the immobile to cover George, looking as shifty as ever.

Ron choked. “No…” he groaned. “Hermione…”

She shook her head. “I took everything important out of it,” she said. “I’m not stupid.” Everything irreplaceable or that she couldn’t allow into enemy hands, although some things in it were still valuable to them. She winced as Rookwood pulled her cell’s last two broomsticks out and threw them aside.

“Hmm…brooms,” he muttered. “Textbooks…both magical and muggle, it seems, but nothing out of the ordinary. Clothing, male and female. Some healing potions. A…bag of charcoal. Odd. Teakettle, quills and parchment, muggle pens and paper, telescope, Omnioculars, potion ingredients, gloves, cauldron, some other bits and bobs, and…ah, interesting: a magical tent. It looks like you planned for quite a lot, Granger. Pity you won’t be able to take it with you.” He turned back to Lucius. “No clues there. She’s right. She didn’t leave anything valuable.”

“Check the others,” Lucius replied.

Hermione craned her neck to watch as Rookwood patted down Bill. Unfortunately, Bill _did_ have one piece of incriminating material on him: his notes for how to break through the wards. She didn’t know what all was on it, but it must have had some background about continental drift and the ley line misalignment. Whatever it was, Rookwood seemed to notice because he froze and slowly rose to his feet.

“Bellatrix,” he said softly.

“What?” She moved closer to him. He showed her the parchment and whispered something to her while pointing at Hermione. Bellatrix’s eyes grew wide and mad when she heard it, showing white all around, and her face paled. She swooped down on Hermione, planting a knee on her chest and holding the page over her face. “What is this?” she hissed. “What is this, mudblood?”

It was the ley line map of Britain, with the distortions to the lines marked.

“What? That?” Hermione choked out, confused. “It’s a ley line map.”

“Hey!” Bill yelled. “That’s mine! She had nothing to do with it—”

 _“Crucio!”_ Bellatrix yelled, and Bill screamed in agony. “You think I’m an idiot, blood traitor? This has _her_ written all over it. Lucius, toss those three in the cellar.” She pointed to all three of the Weasley boys. “I’ll deal with them later.”

Lucius drew himself up and stepped nearly nose to nose with her. “Excuse me, Bellatrix, but this is _my_ house, and—”

“And _I_ have been given explicit instructions from the Dark Lord himself,” she hissed, waving the parchment in his face. “If the mudblood’s got _this_ far, we have a serious problem.”

What was she talking about? Did You-Know-Who know about continental drift too? The war would have started already by the time he could have. There wouldn’t be much opportunity, and it didn’t sound like him.

“No! Stop it!”

“Don’t!”

“Hermione!”

“George!” she cried as Lucius and Rookwood manhandled the boys and threw them down the stairs beneath the trapdoor, sealing it over their heads. Hermione could hear shouts of pain and desperation faintly from below. For herself, she still couldn’t move, her wrists pinned to the marble. She groaned when Bellatrix again knelt on her chest, so hard that she winced as she thought she might have felt a rib crack.

“What were you doing with that map?” Bellatrix demanded.

Hermione furrowed her brow. “What—?”

 _“This map!”_ she yelled in her face. “What were you doing with it?”

“It’s how we got in—”

“Liar!” The pressure on Hermione’s chests increased. “This isn’t the Manor. What do the numbers mean?”

“They’re—they’re rune stone misalignments.” She gave up holding back. They’d freed the prisoners; this small advantage was a lot less important than getting out of here. “I told you the ward stones are misaligned.”

Bellatrix narrowed her eyes and looked back and forth between her and the paper. “A hundred and fifty feet?”

It was yards, not feet, but Hermione didn’t correct her. She coughed and choked under her weight. “Please,” she groaned. “It’s not impossible. It takes a surveyor’s square to see it, but—”

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as Bellatrix grew paler and even more manic. “Where have you been?” she hissed.

“What?” Hermione tried to flinch away. What had she said?

“Where have you been! Narborough, Fringford, Highworth, Lyneham, North Curry! Where did you measure from?”

“Nowhere! I didn’t measure it; I calculated it!”

_“Crucio!”_

Hermione was _blinded_ with pain. It shot through her body from head to toe, burning _everything_. She felt it in her muscles, organs, and bones like a thousand knives stabbing into her all at once, but even that paled next to the searing agony that ravaged her as every inch of her skin inside and out felt like she’d been doused in boiling oil and set on fire. Her mucous membranes all the way into her lungs were burning with a pain she’d never known before. She screamed like she never had before, but she could barely hear it as she felt daggers stabbing in her ears. Her head felt like someone was taking a rack of drills to it. This was Hell.

All sense of time and coherent thought fled from her until she couldn’t imagine anything but the pain. She didn’t know how long she was under it when she came out of it. It might have been seconds or minutes. It couldn’t have been longer because she would have fainted from exhaustion even if her mind came through intact, but it _felt_ like hours. And like no time at all—so intense that part of her felt like it couldn’t have been real when she wasn’t under it.

And yet the pain lingered. Not just the scrapes and bruises from her thrashing on the floor. Not just the deep ache of strained muscles and bones from her convulsions. The pain of being burnt all over lingered, an echo of the crushing, inhuman force of the Unforgivable Curse. How had Harry been able to _stand_ after this, much less fight?

She could barely hear as the ringing in her ears subsided. Rookwood was speaking “—wasn’t always accurate. If the larger grid is misaligned, it could be possible to find a weak point.”

Hermione only half listened. She strained her ears and caught the faint sound of George shouting her name from the dungeon.

“I see…You! No lies, mudblood,” Bellatrix hissed hatefully. Her eyes struggled to focus on the woman’s face. “If you’re so sure the stones are misaligned, how did you measure them?”

Hermione opened her mouth, but her voice caught. Her throat was already feeling raw from her screams. “I—I didn’t need to,” she managed. “Only needed…the age. Drift over time.”

“Stones drift? Is _that_ the best you can think of? No. Of course, you’re bluffing! That’s it! You came for Rookwood. Lure him into a trap with some ridiculous story.”

“What?” Hermione was lost. Bellatrix was making less and less sense by the minute. “Rookwood? We didn’t know he was here. We were hoping he wasn’t.”

_“Crucio!”_

Hermione’s body seized up, and she thrashed on the floor as the fire consumed her again. She screamed, but she couldn’t even feel how it tore at her throat, the pain was so bad. It seemed to burn _worse_ than before, and to last longer, but either of those things could have been in her head. It was too much for her mind to process as anything less.

She gasped as the curse was lifted. Her throat hurt worse, and she felt like she sprained her arm with her thrashing. Her body felt the aftermath of being burned, hypersensitive to any painful stimulus. Her heart felt like it would leap out of her chest in her rising panic. What was going on? Was was this happening? She squealed when Bellatrix grabbed her by the throat.

“You knew Rookwood was here,” she said. “You want what he knows.”

“No—”

 _SLAM!_ Bellatrix cracked her head against the ground, making her see stars.

 _“Yes!_ His spells—knowledge. But not here—can’t fight him. Trying—to free prisoners—wanted—house empty.”

“You needed him to finish your map, didn’t you? You couldn’t find what you needed, so you tried to got him. Where have you been looking?”

Hermione shook her head fiercely, weeping. “Please, I don’t know what you’re talking about! EEK!”

Bellatrix grabbed her by the hair and forced her head back. “How did you know about Highworth?” she demanded. “Lyneham?”

“It’s basic geomancy. Please!”

 _“Where_ were you _surveying?!_ _”_

“I swear, we didn’t! I calculated the movement of—”

_“CRUCIO!”_

She screamed again as indescribable agony seared her to the bone. It never varied. Would be counterproductive if it did because the only way it _could_ vary was to be _less—_ the maximum degree of pain that the nervous system was physically capable of transmitting—a limit as immutable as absolute zero. A torture she couldn’t escape no matter how she screamed and flailed and tore at her own body.

She tasted blood in her mouth when the curse cut off. She didn’t wait for a question and shouted as fast as she could: “The continents move over time! I swear that’s not a lie! Ask any muggle! Look in a library! They move under the ley lines, and the rune stones bend them— _AAHHHHH!_ ”

_“Crucio!”_

She couldn’t do it. She had no idea was Bellatrix was talking about. She couldn’t _think_ for long enough to string two thoughts together with the Cruciatus Curse burning into her. She’d say anything to stop her, but she didn’t know what she wanted to hear.

“You’re with Potter, aren’t you?” Bellatrix said. “Where’s he? He didn’t feel like coming? Was this a distraction?”

“He’s—not coming out,” Hermione wheezed. “Learnt that—last time.”

“Does he know about this? Does he know where you’ve been?”

She couldn’t even evaluate which answer was “right” or “wrong”, either strategically or in Bellatrix’s twisted head. She hadn’t tried Legilimency again, which was good because Hermione couldn’t imagine how Occlumency could stand up to _this_. “He knows everything…” she said.

“Then where is he, mudblood? What rotten hole is he hiding in?”

“Can’t say. _Fidelius_ ,” she said, praying she would buy it.

No dice. _“Crucio!”_

_“AAAAHHHHHHHH!”_

_“Hermione!”_

_“No! Let her go!”_

_“Take me instead!”_

The muffled sounds continued from the cellar, now accompanied by pounding on the trapdoor. They must have escaped their bonds somehow, but it wasn’t helping them get out. Lucius looked nervous—or at least Hermione thought he did. She could barely see straight. Bellatrix seemed unconcerned, however.

“You’re lying, filthy mudblood. I know your type. Uppity bitch who has to know everything. You wouldn’t leave that to someone else.”

She shook her head violently. “Harry doesn’t trust anyone after Pettigrew— _AHHHGGH!_ ”

 _“Crucio!”_ It was probably only two seconds at most since Bellatrix didn’t break her cadence, but two seconds felt like twenty when she was in that much pain. “Or maybe you’re right, and he is keeping, but where do you get your food?” Bellatrix said. “You can’t hide _that_ secret.”

Hermione’s eyes widened. How could she have missed such an obvious flaw? Sure she’d known going to the store was a risk, but she never thought of it as revealing part of the secret.

“Ha! You didn’t think of that, did you, mudblood? Where—”

“Apparate!” she cried. “We Apparate to the store! Different town!” A lie, but there _was_ Apparition involved.

 _“Crucio!”_ Bellatrix cursed her. A second or two again. “You didn’t think that far ahead, mudblood. I can see it in your eyes. Maybe we’ll just keep you here. Potter has to come out of his hole eventually. We just need to know what town it is. We know its a town. You need the equipment for that little radio show of yours. Has to be centrally located to reach the whole county.”

 _Did it?_ She shook her head: “Broadcast through the ley lines. Can do it from anywhere.”

“Where are you staying? Is that how you found these circles?”

“No! Not on a major line. Staying away from those. I swear we’ve never been there—”

_“Crucio!”_

_“AHHHGGGL!_ ” Hermione turned her head and vomited, vaguely surprised that she’d managed not to before. Bellatrix leapt up and backed away, but she carefully came around her other side and grabbed her by the chin again.

“Check the books again, Rookwood,” Bellatrix ordered. “See if there’s any clues to where she’s been written in them.”

 _What?_ That didn’t make any sense.

“Hmm, could be…” Rookwood said. He picked up one of the textbook and leafed through it.

What was he expecting to find? She had bought a couple of the books at the used bookshop in Nottingham, but that would tell him where they were. And most of them she hadn’t anyway.

“Listen carefully, mudblood,” Bellatrix whispered, grabbing her attention again. She forced her head to the side and smeared her hair in the mess. “I don’t care what dragon dung story you want to tell about moving continents or what have you, but you can’t draw a ley line map that accurate without surveying. Too many of the locations are Unplottable. Now _where_ did you do it?!” Her voice rose to a screech.

“It’s a geometric figure on the Earth!” Hermione sobbed. “We’ve never been to any of those towns!”

_“Crucio!”_

_“AHHHRGH!”_

“Which ones did you visit? Was it North Curry? Fringford? What were you looking for?”

“I swear we never went to any of them!” She strained her neck to see the man standing behind her. “Rookwood, please! Tell her! Tell her you can calculate the coordinates arithmantically,” she begged the Death Eater in her delirium.

Rookwood stood silent as stone, still looking at the books.

“Please, Rookwood!”

_“Crucio!”_

“We weren’t looking for anything! We only wanted to get in here! We didn’t know you were here! We didn’t know _he_ was here!”

 _“Crucio!_ I know you’re lying, mudblood. What were you looking for at the intersections?”

“Nothing! Please, there was nothing! We only wanted to help Luna!”

_“CRUCIO!”_

Hermione’s screams were ragged and hoarse. She felt the curse shoot through her—the curse that had robbed Septima of her numeracy—that had robbed Neville’s parents of their minds. Had they felt like this? Tortured for answers they didn’t have to questions they didn’t understand, helpless as they were slowly lobotomised? How long had it taken? Hours? A day? How long before the damage was permanent? How long before she lost her voice from the screaming and couldn’t answer even if she wanted to?

She lost all track of time even when she wasn’t being cursed. At some point, she didn’t know if she’d been there half an hour or a week. All she knew was the pain—the fire seeping into her brain. Bellatrix kept grilling her, asking more and more insistently what they were looking for down south, but she couldn’t give an answer.

Magic crackled around her fingertips. Accidental magic? With the stress…she could feel it—wanted to use it—to do something— _anything_ —to make the pain stop. She lost the feeling every time the curse wracked her body. It was useless. Neville’s parents hadn’t managed it. They’d had a baby with them and would have fought with everything they had. Would it have mattered that they’d had four maniacal Death Eaters torturing them and not one.

_“CRUCIO!”_

Her scream was little more than a gagging sound. Her hands and feet were going numb.

“How did you find it? How did you find the circles?”

“Rookwood, please tell her!” she babbled, her voice scratching. “You’re an arithmancer! You know this! Spheroidal trigonometry! The mirror planes of the dodecahedron! We could do it anywhere! From France! From _America_ — _AAAACH!_ ”

 _“CRUCIO!_ What did you find there? Tell me the truth or I swear I’ll run you through with this knife!”

She couldn’t speak. Her tongue wouldn’t obey.

_“CRUCIO! TELL ME!”_

_Please just let me die._

Bellatrix pulled her chin again to face her. Hermione stared blankly into her eyes.

 _“Hermione! Hermione!”_ George’s voice came through. _“Do something! I can’t hear her!”_

Hermione grunted as Bellatrix straddled her again, knocking the wind out of her. “Let’s try something a little more hands-on, shall we?” she said in her fake sweet voice. She flashed her knife again, but she didn’t run Hermione through. Instead, she practically lay across her chest and reached toward her exposed left arm. She cut the sleeve off her robe and then started cutting into her flesh.

 _“EEEEE!”_ Hermione whined under the assault. She couldn’t see, but she could feel the cuts. Four strokes in a zigzag pattern, then a curve—and she knew what word Bellatrix was carving.

Where she was about to give up and let go, a spark of anger seized her. In rage and pain and desperation at the absolute limit of her endurance, she pushed, struggled to hold it. Her body wouldn’t obey, but she pushed harder, pushing into that feeling of magic that children usually tried to suppress. Bellatrix carved the eighth letter and then rose to her feet to admire her handiwork.

“Feeling more talkative now?” she said, pointing her wand. “Wake up, mudblood! _Cruci—!_ ”

_CRACK!_

Hermione’s arm ripped up from the floor, and a bolt of blue lightning shot from her fingertips, hitting her square in the chest. Bellatrix went sprawling across the floor as it continued to crackle over her body for several seconds in a way any muggle-born would recognise.

At the same moment, Hermione reached out and _pulled_ , and her vinewood wand flew into her hand. She completed half the motion of bringing it up like a sword before she caught herself. This wasn’t movie. Four on one. She had a second at most. She pointed her wand and cast a single spell.

* * *

Ron and his brothers pounded on the trapdoor above their head without effect. Hermione’s screams had grown ever more ragged and desperate as Bellatrix tortured her about things that didn’t even make sense. Ron was sure the sound of her screams would haunt his nightmares, and George was even worse off. He’d heard fingers break with the constant pounding and scratching and felt his own fingers bleed. It was so awful, he didn’t think anything could be more horrible than the sound of her screams—until he heard them _stop._

Then, they came back, but different. A high-pitched whine. What was happening to her?

 _“Feeling more talkative now?”_ Bellatrix’s voice came through. _“Wake up, mudblood! Cruci—!_ ”

_CRACK!_

Ron jumped as he heard a new sound—one that he didn’t recognise, but which sounded vaguely like lightning.

George spoke: “What was tha—?”

_BANG!_

Ron stared as the trapdoor was ripped off its hinges and flew upward above their heads. Ron’s head popped up just in time to take in the whole scene in an instant. Bellatrix was sprawling on the floor, and lightning was crackling over her body. Lucius and Rookwood were stunned by the sudden explosion. And Hermione was lying on her stomach with her wand—her _wand_ —pointed towards them.

While he was looking, there was another bang as the trapdoor hit the ceiling, and Ron’s keen tactical mind sprang into action. Without consciously thinking about it, he ducked and covered his head with his arm even as he bounded up the stairs. A chunk of the door crashed down on him, but he fought through the pain and leaned into it.

 _“Dobby! Now!”_ someone said. It must have been Hermione. She should have shouted it, but it came out as more of a croak.

Ron moved. His wand was broken, Bill couldn’t walk, and Hermione was surrounded, so he grabbed the edge of the piece of wood and barrelled towards the greatest threat: Rookwood.

A curse from Rookwood shattered the door but Ron’s momentum knocked him to the ground. Ron grabbed for his wand and elbowed him in the jaw. Rookwood may have been a brilliant Unspeakable, but he was getting old, and Ron had Quidditch reflexes and five older brothers to fight with.

Then, so many things happened at once that he couldn’t keep track of it all. George ran for Hermione, and he dove to avoid curses from Lucius and Pettigrew. The chandelier overhead crashed down with no warning, and glass shards scattered everywhere. Lucius reeled back in shock as they cut into his face. Ron wrested Rookwood’s wand away from him and cast a Bludgeoning Curse at Lucius. Dobby threw a knife at Bellatrix. Where had _he_ come from?

“Bill!” George yelled. He tossed Bill’s wand down the stairs. Was Bill still down there? Rookwood grabbed for his wand back, clutching Ron’s wrist like a vice. Bill started to pop up, but Rookwood twisted around and shot a curse at him, knocking him back down the stairs with a muffled shout. Ron used his other arm and elbowed Rookwood in the bollocks. He flinched and Ron wrested the wand away again and stunned him. Ron started to rise, then ducked as a curse from Pettigrew flew over his head. He cursed back, but the rat was bloody quick and kept dodging. Ron dove for cover, and they danced around each other, curses flying, until Bill crawled back up and managed to hit Pettigrew with a Stunner from the floor.

Bellatrix was fighting George, Hermione, and Dobby all at once, her curses smashing against their shields and deflecting whatever it was Dobby was doing. They were at a stalemate. Ron started towards them, but then—

“Cissy, kill them!” Bellatrix shrieked.

Ron whirled around and pointed his wand at the only other Death Eater still standing: Narcissa, who froze in mid-step, her wand out. “Don’t,” he said as threateningly as he could. “I’ll do it; I swear I will.”

“He’s bluffing, Cissy!” Bellatrix said. “He’s too noble Gryffindor to hex a pregnant witch!”

Narcissa hesitated, then started to advance. Ron backed against the wall and threw up a shield between her and himself and the others. Dammit, could he do it? He didn’t think he could. Bellatrix was right.

But he had an idea. It was a gambit—a _double_ gambit—but it just might work.

“Hermione!” he called. She turned her head, and he waved his wand, trusting her to understand the motion. Her eyes widened, and he didn’t hesitate.

_Accio!_

Hermione raised a wider shield around herself as she was pulled across the room. Ron jumped and was pulled in her direction himself. He spun her around his body so that she skittered into the wall behind him. She might have fallen, but his first gambit paid off. She held up her shield with one hand and pointed her other wand at Narcissa. Ron ducked and rolled to avoid a curse from Bellatrix, and George and Dobby moved to cover him. Bill was advancing on his knees, using a piece of the trapdoor as a shield.

And Hermione? She was unsteady on her feet, leaning on the wall for support. Her hands shook as she pointed her wand. Her voice was so hoarse she could hardly project it. But Narcissa froze in her tracks.

“ _Don_ _’t_ make me do it,” Hermione rasped out. “Drop your wand.”

She dropped it.

 _“NO!”_ Bellatrix screamed. She moved faster than ever and did what she hadn’t done the whole time. She touched her wand to her dark mark.

“Bollocks!”

 _“RUN!”_ George yelled.

Bellatrix fought two-handed to stop them, not with a second wand, but she threw one of her knives at George and a second at Bill while she tried to curse everyone in sight. She swiped a purple curse at Ron that was so powerful that it felt like a whip striking his face even through his shield. Then, she set a fire that burned all the way around the perimeter of the room instantly. But then, Dobby disarmed her, and as she stared in shock, George threw a Blasting Curse at her. It hit so close that she fell to the floor, stunned.

Hermione cast two spells that blew out part of the front wall of the drawing room with a sound of thunder, making a gap in the flames wide enough to run through. She started trying to run, staggering along, taking just enough time to summon her basilisk coat. “Dobby! Apparate Bill to the edge of the wards, then drag him through and Apparate him to Molly and Arthur!” she said.

Ron and George didn’t argue. Bill couldn’t walk; the rest of them could. They ran after her. George caught up with her and pulled her along, helping to support her. They probably had second before You-Know-Who would be there. They ran flat-out to the edge of the wards. When they got a fair distance away, Ron looked over his shoulder and saw Narcissa running after them, wand out, but she wasn’t trying to curse them. She looked terrified. It probably wouldn’t be good for her health for You-Know-Who to find her the only one still conscious in this situation.

George and Hermione reached the edge of the wards, with Ron following close behind. “Go!” he yelled, and George Apparated Hermione away.

Ron looked back one more time. Narcissa was still running, out of breath and stumbling in her maternity robes.

“Dammit,” he muttered. _“Accio!”_

Narcissa flew towards him as he pulled her outside the wards. He held his stance to catch her as gently as he could, then promptly dropped her on her arse and Apparated away.

He landed in a heap with George and Hermione, who had collapsed on the ground. They were at the edge of the wards of Prewett Manor—just inside the Fidelius Charm. He was a little surprised they were there with him and not back at the factory. Bill was lying a short distance away.

“You okay?” he panted.

“No…” Hermione said.

“She needs healing,” George said. “So does Bill.”

“So do you,” Ron said. He looked down at his bleeding hands. _So do I._ “Come on.” He cast _Mobilicorpus_ on Bill and started levitating him towards the manor. George helped Hermione to her feet, and they started after him. He saw his parents run out of the manor, calling their names, followed by Ginny and Percy.

“Bill! Hermione!” Mum cried as she reached them. “What happened?”

“George, are you okay?” Percy demanded.

“They caught us,” George said. “We barely got away. Hermione—” He choked and couldn’t finish the sentence.

“What was it?” Ginny demanded.

“C-Cruciatus,” Ron said, and everyone gasped. “It was bad. Really bad. Bellatrix was on her about I don’t know what the hell, and she just wouldn’t stop! Dammit, it’s all my fault!”

“It wasn’t your fault Ron,” George growled. “Much as I’d like it to be,” he added under his breath.

“It was my bloody plan that got us caught,” Ron said morosely.

“It wasn’t,” Hermione wheezed. “If we’d known Narcissa was pregnant—if she hadn’t come down with some craving just then… _You_ got us out, Ron. We were facing superior firepower, but you figured out how to beat them.”

“Barely,” he said.

They reached the house, and Fleur stepped outside. Her eyes widened and she ran down the front steps, cradling her belly. “Bill!” she cried as she hurried to his side. “What ‘appened to ‘im?”

“Broken leg. Knocked down stairs. Maybe cursed. Not sure,” Ron said.

“Quickly, now,” Mum cut in. “Let’s get him in the house. He needs help.”

Hermione just stared as Mum and Dad carried Bill into the house and laid him on the sofa. Then, she stared at Fleur for a few seconds as she doted on her husband, then looked back Ron. “Ron, how did you know?” she asked softly.

“Huh?”

“How did you know I’d do it? That I’d curse Narcissa?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “But I knew she’d _think_ you would.”

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but just then, Fleur let out an inhuman screech.

_“AIEEE! Bill! Molly!”_

“Fleur, what is it?” Mum gasped.

Fleur leaned into the sofa and clutched at her stomach. “Oh, Molly! I zink zee baby ees coming!”

“What?” Bill groaned.

“Oh, Merlin’s bollocks!”

Ron stared in shock. That was _Mum._ George and Ginny froze. Hermione fell over.

“That’s impossible!” Ron said. “You’ve got like six weeks left!”

“AHH! Tell _her_ zat!” Fleur snapped.

“Okay, okay, no one panic!” Mum said, taking charge. “Arthur, fetch a tub of water. You know what to do. Ginny, help me. George, do what you need to for Hermione. Percy, look over Bill. And if anyone can call for help…”

“The hospital,” Hermione said. “St. Mungo’s.”

Dad shook his head. “It’s no good. They’ll find us.”

“But the Healers—” she protested.

Fleur screamed, and Bill sat up and struggled to reach out to her from the sofa.

“Are oath-bound to protect us,” Dad said, “but the Death Eaters who will surely be watching the building _aren_ _’t_. We have to do it here.”


	68. Chapter 68

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, and neither is Hermione. I claim unreliable narrator on any mistakes. Oh, and JK Rowling owns all.
> 
> Thanks to Gofanon, Liang Arkeanda, Vanessa Li Potter, voidbuilder, and ThePianoProdigy over on Reddit for helping me sort through this mess.

George pulled Hermione away form the sitting room and helped her pull off the basilisk-skin coat she had hastily put back on during their escape. It had been torn at some point during the process despite the leather’s toughness. Maybe Bellatrix’s knife or her own carbon dagger just to spite her, or maybe one of Rookwood’s curses finally cut through the magic resistance. The hem and especially the left sleeve were ragged. It would still provide some protection, but it wouldn’t be a good as when she got it.

“How do you feel,” George asked.

“I’ll live,” she rasped, notwithstanding that she sounded like an old woman who’d smoked for fifty years. In fact, she was still in some of the worst pain she’d ever felt outside the Torture Curse itself. It was like she’d been sunburned all over, and her whole body was aching like she’d overexerted herself exercising. And worst of all, her mind was still fuzzy. She started running through maths in her head, trying to assess the damage. Multiplication was still there—and not just the multiplication tables—but it was slower. Division? Same. Algebra? It was there. Trigonometry—

“Hermione, you’re bleeding!”

She snapped out of it with George’s shout. She looked down at her left arm and saw the letters written in oozing blood.

_MUDBLOOD_

“That bitch! Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Was a little preoccupied,” she managed.

“What happened, now?” Arthur cut in. He was levitating a tub of water into the sitting room and carrying old sheets and pillows. For labour and delivery. What was this, the Dark Ages?

“Cruciatus Curse wasn’t working, so Bellatrix started cutting her up,” George snarled. “I’m gonna kill her, that—just look.”

“Merlin’s beard!” Arthur gasped when he saw the word.

Hermione shook her head, and the room spun. “Not important.”

“But she carved Mu—” George started.

“Not important!”

“Hermione, that needs looked at,” Arthur insisted.

“See to Bill and Fleur,” she snapped. Her voice was slowly coming back to her. “I learnt Snape’s healing spell. It should do the trick.” She drew her wand and ran it over the wound. _“Vulnera Sanentur.”_

The wounds didn’t close.

“What?” she squeaked. _“Vulnera Sanentur._ Why isn’t it working? _Vulnera Sanentur!_ _”_

“Hermione, this is _Bellatrix_ we’re talking about,” George said. “It’s probably cursed.” He pulled her along back to the sitting room.

“This spell is _designed_ for cursed wounds!” she cried, then descended into a coughing fit.

Molly noticed their distress. “What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Hermione got cut by a cursed knife,” George said.

“Oh, dear. Let me see.” Molly took her hand and also gasped when she saw the word. “Oh, no! How awful! I’m so sorry, Hermione.”

Hermione hissed and pulled her hand back. “Don’t worry about the damn _word!_ That healing spell should have worked on it.”

Arthur shook his head. “Not necessarily on a wound caused by a physical knife,” he said. “Those curses can be stronger. Muriel, do you have any Essence of Dittany?”

“Essence of Dittany?” Muriel’s voice creaked. “Do you know how expensive that is, young man? And I haven’t exactly had the chance to buy any since we started hiding.”

The rest of the Weasleys ignored her little jab. “Hermione, I don’t suppose you have your own?” Arthur asked.

“No,” she said. “I _did_ , but I lost it in the fight. Along with our last two brooms. And my survival gear, and all my textbooks and muggle books—”

Ginny whirled around and stared at her in horror. “What about the _important_ stuff?” she asked. “Your secret project?”

She shook her head. “I took all that out before we left. Harry has it.”

“That’s one bit of good news,” George said. “Hermione, you should lie down.”

She suppressed a hiss when he touched her, still hypersensitive. “Just put me in the chair.” She fought weakly against his efforts to take her to her bed and sat in an overstuffed chair.

“Ginny look after Fleur for a few minutes,” Molly said. “Hermione, I’ll see if I can come up with something—”

“No.”

“What?”

“ _Triage_ , Molly,” Hermione said. “You can’t do much for curse damage, and Fleur and Bill need help more. Just get me a pain potion.” She stopped and looked at Fleur, whom Ginny was helping lie down on the blankets. “If you can spare any.”

“But—”

“I’ve got it.” She bit down on her collar and ran her wand over her wounds again. _“Facio Sutura.”_ The pain wasn’t as bad as she expected as the words were stitched closed with conjured thread, what with how badly she was hurting already. _“Tergeo. Ferula.”_ The wound was cleaned and bandaged. It would hold for now.

“That’s going to scar,” George said.

“Let it,” she growled. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll show them what a mudblood can do.”

“Don’t call y—” He stopped and sighed. “You’ve still been Cruciated. Badly. You need—hell, I don’t even know what you do for that. Are pain potions enough?”

“It’s not like it’ll get worse. Need to call Harry.”

“Hermione, you need to _rest_.”

“I _need_ to bring Harry and your brother here, George.” She waved her wand again, closing her eyes and concentrating. _“Expecto Nuntium.”_

Nothing happened.

“Hermione—” George said, but she ignored him.

This wasn’t a good sign. She still practised religiously with the Patronus Charm. She focused harder, trying to piece her Occlumency back together to fight the pain and concentrate on her happiest memories. _“Expecto Nuntium!”_

It worked. Her silvery otter appeared from her wand, wavery, but clear and primed to carry a message. “Harry, we’re at Muriel’s. Everyone got out, but Bill’s hurt, and Fleur’s having the baby. Get Fred and come here—Wait, buy some pain meds from the chemist first. And bring the diadem, too.”

She sent her Patronus away to Nottingham, then slumped in the chair.

“Muggle…pain meds?” George said in confusion.

“Better than nothing,” she said. “Don’t know how much we have here.”

“You didn’t tell him why you needed them.”

She shrugged and waved him off.

Arthur stood over the scene, surveying the room, and Hermione followed his gaze. Everyone seemed to be in their places. Ron was the only one who didn’t really have anything to do. “Percy, how’s Bill?” Arthur asked.

Percy looked up and wobbled his hand noncommittally. “Not great. Broken leg, broken ribs, minor curse damage, possible concussion. I’m not really the one to be dealing with this kind of thing.”

“Bill, let me take a look at that, dear,” Molly said

“No—” Bill said.

“Bill—”

“Mum, see to Fleur. I can wait,” Bill said, pushing himself up on the sofa.

“Bill, lie down! You’re in no condition for this.”

“I need to be with my wife,” he grunted. He reached out to Fleur on the floor beside him.

Fleur took his hand, but she looked up at him sternly. “You are sweet, Bill, but you need to see for— _AIEEEEEE!_ ” She stopped as another bird-like screech tore from her, which proceeded into swearing colourfully in French.

 _“GAAHH!”_ Bill yelled as Fleur clamped down on his hand hard enough to hear his joints crack.

“Oh, Merlin!” Molly exclaimed. “Ginny, how many minutes was that?”

Ginny looked at her mother with wide eyes: “I dunno, four or five?”

“Oh, Lord help us,” Molly murmured. She sprang into action to help Fleur again. “I’m sorry, Fleur but I’m with Bill now. Arthur, get ready! At this rate, this baby could be here by sunup.”

Bill whined and clutched his wrist when Fleur finally released him. He was bleeding from five small claw marks, and Hermione could see the subtle pattern of feathers rippling over his wife’s skin. That was another bad sign. Full Veela births had to be terrifying affairs.

Arthur got out more supplies, presumably to help finish the delivery cleanly and to make sure the baby was taken care of. Muriel came back a few minutes later with some potions.

“This is all I have in the potion cabinet,” she said. “Pain potion, blood replenisher, Skele-Gro, concussion potion, and you’d best hope it’s enough.”

“Thank you, Muriel,” Arthur said. “Percy, give this to Bill.” He handed out one of the potions.

“Hermione should have a dose of the pain reliever,” Molly said.

“Molly, I couldn’t,” Hermione said.

“Yes you bloody well can,” George insisted.

“But Fleur—”

Molly cut her off: “You went through worse than she is not an hour ago, and that’s saying something. And I doubt Fleur will need the whole bottle at this right. Just see to yourself right now.”

Hermione graciously accepted the small cup of potion after that and drank it. She coughed as it hit the scratching in her throat, but she got it down. The potion only took the edge off, though, which she didn’t really expect anything more—not against a curse—but she could function a little better. Molly gave Fleur a dose next, but she was still in this for the long haul. Molly did find a couple minutes to mend to Bill’s broken bones, but she said it wasn’t a perfect job. Bill slid down to the floor to sit by Fleur’s side.

A little while later, a clang sounded throughout the house, signifying someone crossing the wards.

“Arthur! Ronald!” Molly barked and pointed to the door. The two men ran out and thankfully ran back in a couple minutes later without incident.

“It’s Harry and Fred, Mum,” Ron called, and sure enough, the two harried-looking boys stumbled in after him.

“George!” Fred called. He ran over and hugged his twin. “Are you okay. All we heard was Bill was hurt.”

“Just a little bruised, Freddie,” George said. “Bill is…” He motioned to his eldest brother, who was still sitting wearily by Fleur’s side. His hand was wrapped in a strip of cloth while he held hers.

“Oh, Merlin!” Fred averted his eyes from Fleur.

George rolled his eyes: “Oh, grow up, Fred. Bill’s not great, but he’s okay. Hermione, though…”

“Yeah, Hermione, what happened?” Harry said as he took off his coat. “You sounded like you were choking or something.”

“Did you get the pills?” she demanded.

“Yeah. Got both kinds, just in case. D’you know how hard it is to find a twenty-four hour chemist?”

“Sorry, Harry. George, water, please?”

George hurried to get her a glass of water, and Hermione struggled to open the bottles with trembling hands and downed two paracetamol and two ibuprofen on the spot.

“Bloody hell, what happened to you?” Harry demanded.

“Cruciatus. Bellatrix.”

Harry and Fred both sucked in a breath. “Ouch. Sorry,” Harry said.

“It was bad,” George said. “I only heard it, and I won’t be able to sleep tonight. Plus her arm.”

“Her arm?”

“Just a scratch. Don’t worry about it.” She made a fist and winced. “Ow.”

“What?” asked George.

“I think I might’ve sprained it.”

“What? Why didn’t you say anything.”

“I didn’t notice. I was hurting too much everywhere else. I’m not worried about my _body_. Harry, did you bring the diadem?”

Harry nodded. He produced a bundle of cloth and unwrapped it to reveal Ravenclaw’s diadem. He handed it to Hermione, eyeing her worriedly, and she held it up to put it on her head.

“Wait! What are you doing?” George grabbed her good wrist.

Hermione opened her mouth and struggled to voice her fears. “George, the words don’t exist to describe what happened back there, and my head still feels fuzzy. If there’s…if there’s any permanent damage, this is the only thing I can think of that might mitigate it.”

“What? Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“No, but it’s the best one I’ve got right now.” She put the diadem on her head and squeezed her eyes shut against the world.

Ravenclaw’s diadem opened the connections between the conscious and subconscious mind, including the ones that governed the brain’s natural capacity for maths. Perhaps, as she wore it, it would reinforce those pathways and repair whatever the damage the Cruciatus Curse might have caused. Or maybe it would reinforce the perceptive pathways and send her into permanent sensory overload. Or maybe it was specifically magically prevented from doing either. She didn’t know what if anything it had done to Rowena Ravenclaw with long-term use. But if she could just solve Harry’s horcrux problem, it would be worth it, so she was pretty sure she was better off wearing it than not.

She moaned softly from the sensations. A minute later, Fleur screamed again, and Molly shouted, and Hermione squeaked and covered her ears. George touched her on the shoulder, and she shrugged him off.

“Hermione, that thing makes you hypersensitive. Isn’t it making the pain worse?”

“No. It _doesn_ _’t_ make me hypersensitive,” she said. “It makes me feel _everything_. I was already feeling the pain, but now I can distract myself with the rest of it. I’m getting better at doing that. Besides, it doesn’t stop the pain relievers working.” Under the circumstances, itchy clothing was practically welcome, given the alternative, but it was too loud out here. She stood up.

“Hermione—” George started.

“I need a minute.” She stumbled back to Ginny’s room and shut the door. With the lights out and the sounds from the sitting room muffled, she could focus. She still hurt all over, and she was dead-tired, but she could function now. She focused on her maths. Arithmetic was faster than without the diadem, although. She ran through the more advanced subjects, year by year, class by class: elementary algebra, Euclidean geometry, trigonometry, differential, integral, and vector calculus, ordinary and partial differential equations, non-Euclidean geometry, linear and abstract algebra, real and complex analysis, algebraic topology, differential geometry. She remembered everything. She could do the requisite operations in her head. She didn’t have any tests to calibrate her speed and accuracy, but it seemed that Bellatrix hadn’t done enough damage to slow her down.

Hermione sank to the floor in relief and leaned against the door. Now that she was calmer, she thought back and assessed the situation. What was the difference between her and Septima or Neville’s parents? She was younger, of course. And she’d probably been exposed for less time. That seemed like the most important part. Plus, Septima had suffered a concussion on top of it. But how did the Cruciatus Curse actually cause damage to the brain? She’d never heard of a muggle going insane or comatose from torture—from injuries associated with torture, certainly, but not from pain alone. From how the Cruciatus Curse worked, she could hazard a guess that the damage was electrical—simply dumping more energy into the nervous system than it could handle.

That suggested the damage was simply burning out the nerves on the cellular level. For a curse that focused on the pain nerves, which didn’t exist in the brain itself, that meant it would take longer for the damage to seep into the brain. That was good for her, but it made what happened to the Longbottoms all the more horrifying. To put someone into a vegetative state with the Cruciatus Curse, the Death Eaters must have tortured them long past the point where they could actually feel pain or their bodies were capable of responding. Or maybe multiple curses at once did multiple damage, which was an even scarier thought (and meant the Death Eaters didn’t know how to use it properly).

She forced the thought from her mind and turned to the other strange occurrence: accidental magic. She was younger than the Longbottoms. That was the simplest explanation she could think of. They were Aurors, and good ones, so she couldn’t imagine she was more skilled at the actual casting of magic than they were. Maybe they hadn’t had a long enough respite from the curse, but that seemed unlikely. Maybe it was the multiple curses again. But regardless, summoning her wand without a wand? That was so useful she should have learnt it ages ago.

She stood up and proceeded back to the sitting room. She ignored the boys even though their words intruded like clanging cymbals. She placed her wand on the side table and sat back in the overstuffed chair, out of reach. Then, she reached out to it and tried to call it to her.

“Um…Hermione? What are you doing?” Harry said.

“Using the Force.”

“Huh?”

Hermione looked up. “Have you ever seen _Return of the Jedi?_ ”

Harry gave her an annoyed look: “Yeah…In bits and pieces, anyway. The Dursleys couldn’t stop me every time.”

“Well, you know at the end when the Emperor used lightning on Luke?”

“Yeah?”

“Wait, what’s this now?” George cut in.

“Muggle thing. George, you didn’t see what happened. After Bellatrix carved up my arm—”

“WHAT?!” Harry yelled.

Hermione flinched back. “Not so loud. Stay with me, Harry. I unstuck my wrist from the floor, zapped Bellatrix with lightning like in _Star Wars_ , and summoned my wand to myself—all without a wand. That’s when I cast _Atithikhula_ at the trapdoor.”

Everyone who heard her stopped and stared at her. “You mean you did wandless magic?” Fred said in awe. “That’s incredible. That’s, like, Dumbledore-level stuff.”

“I think it was more like directed accidental magic,” Hermione said, “but if I did it once, I’m hoping I can learn it, so I don’t ever have to go through that again.” She fell silent and concentrated again, reaching out towards her wand. Her hand was still shaking. Her wand didn’t budge.

“Maybe you should wait until your rested and healed,” George offered.

She shrugged him off. “It can’t be that hard,” she muttered. She tried to reach for the flow of magic that she’d felt when she’d zapped Bellatrix—something they never learnt in school beyond the cursory level they needed to wave a wand. It didn’t sound that hard in principle, but doing it without a wand was like writing with a chisel instead of a quill pen. She started to feel it though. She reach out. He wand started to wobble.

_“AIEEEE!”_

A scream from Fleur broke her concentration. Her wand sparked and knocked itself onto the floor. She snatched it up and spun to where the other women and Bill were sitting.

“That’s it, Fleur. Breathe. Breathe,” Molly said.

_“Connasse! Je vais t’arracher le foie et le bouffer!”_

“Of course, dear,” Molly said cheerfully. “Don’t worry, you’re already most of the way there.”

 _“‘Most of zee way’, mon cul!”_ Fleur grabbed for her wand, and Bill and Ginny both dove to stop her.

“Whoa! Whoa! Easy, there, Fleur!” Bill said. “Don’t go hexing the midwife.”

Fleur took a deep breath and leaned back on the blankets. “Don’t zink you are off zee ‘ook, Mister,” she grumbled.

Bill nodded and slumped against the sofa. He looked a little dazed now that Hermione saw him, taking in the small details. He held his hand to his head as if he were feeling faint and rubbed his left shoulder with his other hand.

Molly noticed, too. “Bill, are you alright?” she asked

“Fine, Mum. Just still feeling a bit weak.”

Hermione stood up. “You look worse than before,” she said. “Here, let me take a look.” She took hold of his arm and tried to lift him back to the sofa.

“I’m fine, Hermione,” he repeated. She kept trying to pull him up. “And you’re not a Healer, no offence.”

“With the diadem, I have a photography memory of my parents’ physiology books…well, the parts I read. Molly, can you show me a diagnostic charm? I need to see what I’m working with.”

Molly let out an exasperated sigh and pointed her wand. _“Manifestare.”_ A multicoloured aura appeared on Bill’s body including a large red splotch on his abdomen. Molly gasped. “What happened? It wasn’t like that last I checked.”

“What does that mean?” Hermione said.

“I—I don’t know. That’s only a general diagnostic charm. I’m not a Healer. Something like that we’d take him to St. Mungo’s for.”

“Which we can’t now. Damn,” Hermione muttered.

“Bill? What is wrong?” Fleur asked.

“Just a little banged up, is all,” Bill tried to assure his wife.

“Fleur, see to yourself,” Hermione said. “Let me take a look.” Bill started to protest, but she flicked her wand and ripped his shirt off. Her eyes widened when she saw a large, purple splotch under his skin on his left side. Molly and Fleur gasped.

“Oh, that’s not good,” Hermione said. She touched it, and Bill hissed in pain. The area was swollen and tender. “That’s internal bleeding. Let me think…” She closed her eyes and concentrated, calling up part of the pathophysiology book she’d read. She’d covered a lot of the major organ systems, looking for possible curses. “Kehr’s sign is characterised by a sharp pain at the tip of the left shoulder when the patient is lying down.” Her eyes snapped open. “Bill, lie down.”

“I can wait, Hermione.”

She pushed him down by his opposite shoulder.

“Ow, ow, ow!” he cried, rubbing his left shoulder again, right at the tip.

“Yes, that’s a ruptured spleen,” Hermione said. “Okay, symptoms of hemorrhagic shock…” She grabbed his wrist. “Pulse is weak, but steady. Heart rate is…one-twenty. Behaviour is—”

“Will you stop that?” Bill pulled his arm away.

“Combative. Extremities are cool and mottled. Class II internal hemorrhage, borderline Class III. Molly, how much of that Blood Replenishing Potion can we spare?”

“What?” Molly gasped. “Hermione?”

“How much?”

“Well—well, Fleur _probably_ won’t need it, but we won’t know until the baby is born.”

“Leave it— _ugh_ ,” Bill grunted as he gently touched his hand to his side. “Leave it to Fleur. I can wait.”

Hermione shook her head vigorously. “Unless she’s going to deliver that baby in the next hour, no you can’t.”

 _“ARRRGH!”_ Fleur screamed followed by something that wasn’t French and might have been Serbian, the Veela mother tongue. “Damn you and your plans, ‘Ermione! I’m going to kill you!”

“ _No_ , Fleur!” Bill cut her off. “It’s not her fault. She found a way in. That was all. _I_ went along with it.”

“And _I_ was doing the planning,” Ron added.

“And if it weren’t for Hermione, we wouldn’t’ve made it out at all,” George added.

“Everyone just _SHUT UP!_ ” Hermione yelled, and they all stopped. “Bill needs the Blood Replenishing Potion. Now.” She unstopped the correct phial and measured out half of the bottle.

“No,” he insisted. “If Fleur needs it—”

“You need it more, Bill. Besides, I can fix a postpartum hemorrhage easier than I can fix a ruptured spleen.”

Molly stared at her. “You can?” she said.

“Yes…Probably…Eighty-five percent—which is better odds than Bill would have, before you say anything,” she snapped. She forced him to drink the potion.

Molly gasped. “Is it that bad?”

“The internal bleeding is bad, and I’m still trying to figure out how to fix it with what we have here.”

“Zen you need to _do_ something, ‘Ermione,” Fleur hissed.

 “I need to _think_.” She turned to the wall and closed her eyes and covered her ears. She only knew a handful of healing spells, and not ones that would do much for internal injuries. She did know quite a bit of anatomy and physiology, and the photographic memory the diadem gave her was the best edge she could get, but it still wasn’t promising.

“I’ve bought some time. I just need a way to stop the bleeding,” she muttered to herself. “Seal the wound from the outside…No…no, it’s no good. Maybe there are spells that do that, but with what I’ve got there’s no way I could repair it without being able to see. Open him up? Even then, I don’t know much, and I don’t know how it translates to organs. And I’m assuming he doesn’t have a perforated bowel or something like that. But that’s not an immediate problem. I can just raid a chemist for penicillin if his magic can’t fight it off. Or cleaning the blood of impurities _in situ?_ Pfft. If I had a week. Hmm, take out the entire spleen? No, only as a last resort. Trying to play surgeon’s an even worse idea. Just need a way to stop the bleeding—”

Someone tapped her on the shoulder.

 _“WHAT?!”_ She slapped the hand away so hard that she wound up backhanding a startled Harry across the face.

“Sorry,” he squeaked. “You’re starting to talk in circles. Are you okay?”

“I’ll be fine, Harry.”

Fleur screamed again, and Hermione recoiled from the sound, wedging herself in the corner. All the noise was taking its toll on her, making it that much harder to concentrate on the task at hand.

_Active labour is defined by contractions closer than five minutes apart and cervical dilation greater than three centimeters, and typically lasts eight hours—NO! Focus!_

By her estimation, Fleur had been in active labour practically from the start. She didn’t know offhand how fast it could go, but Fleur sounded like she was going for a record. Hermione was worried about Bill, though. In a perfect world—or a better one, anyway—she’d only have to worry about keeping him alive long enough to get professional help. But here, no help was coming, and a ruptured spleen was bad news, especially as fast as it was progressing.

After a few minutes, Hermione checked on Bill again. His vitals were better, but the “bruising” on his side was worse, and his breathing wasn’t much easier. “How are you feeling, Bill?” she said. “And don’t lie.”

“I—uh, legs kinda hurt,” he admitted.

“Your _legs_? How’s that?”

“Not sure. My feet feel swollen.”

Hermione raised her eyebrows and quickly rolled up his trouser legs. Sure enough, his ankles were swollen. “Oedema?” she said. “Of course, fluid overload. Blood Replenisher and _internal_ bleeding don’t mix well. Okay, this isn’t going to resolve on its own. I’ll have to operate.”

“Operate?!” Harry said.

“Well, sort of. I need to drain that bleeding to relieve the pressure.”

“Is that what you’re supposed to do?”

“Probably not, but I don’t have much to work with here. And I need to go in to see if I can repair his spleen from the inside.”

“Wait, you want to cut him open?” Molly said in horror. “Like those muggle butchers.”

Hermione saw red. She lunged at Molly before Harry and George ran in and stopped her. George tried to pull the diadem off her, and she slapped his hand away. “Those ‘ _muggle butchers_ ’ wiped the deadliest disease in the world off the face of the Earth with no magic at all,” she snarled. “Don’t you call them that again. Right now, it’s the only chance Bill has. Muriel, I need a bottle of the strongest spirits you’ve got, stat!”

“Stat?” Muriel said.

“ _Statim!_ Immediately!” she barked. “ _Cito! Cito! Cito!_ ”

Even Muriel Prewett was cowed by Hermione’s anger and ran to the kitchen to rummage through the cupboards. As soon as she was back in her line of sight, Hermione pointed her wand and summoned the bottle from her hands. She uncorked it and poured the liquor over her wand and the carpet over Muriel’s objections. “A bowl. No, two bowls,” she ordered. Muriel grabbed those too, and Hermione poured the rest in one of them and splashed her fingers in it.

“Harry, George, hold him down,” Hermione ordered. “Molly, shift Fleur over.”

They made room for Bill on the floor, and the boys took their positions at Bill’s head and feet and held him in place, George following Harry’s lead. Harry looked concerned. “Do you even know what you’re doing?” he whispered.

“Dammit, Harry! I’m an arithmancer, not a doctor! But I’m all we’ve got right now.” She placed her wand at the bottom of where the blood was pooling and cast a weak Cutting Charm to make a small incision. Bill hissed and jerked on the floor, but otherwise stayed steady.

“Oh, Bill,” Molly sobbed.

“What is zis?” Fleur demanded. “Zee dark ages?”

“At this point, I’m going with yes,” Hermione said.

Arthur chose that moment to speak up. “Molly, Fleur,” he said, looking stern. “There’s not much we can do when the enemy controls everything. If there’s anything Hermione can do, even if it’s…out of our comfort zone…she should do it.”

They reluctantly accepted that. Some of the blood drained out, and Hermione cautiously cast a weak _Tergeo_ to draw out more. She didn’t want to risk making the bleeding worse, but she needed to at least partially clear the area. At least she hoped that was the right way to go about it. The purple area shrank and lightened, although it remained discoloured. She used _Episkey_ to close that incision since it was small enough and then made a slightly larger incision directly above where the spleen should be.

“Need my other wand,” she muttered. She pulled out her red oak wand, thankful that she still had both of them, soaked that one in the alcohol too, and used it to hold the incision open just a little.

 _“Lumos.”_ She couldn’t see much, but she could see as she worked through the layers of tissue. “Now, if the anatomy diagrams I remember are accurate, the spleen should be right…”

 _“GAAHH!”_ Bill yelled in pain.

“There. Now, I just have to hope this works. _Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur. Vulnera Sanentur._ Does it feel any better?”

“Um…maybe a little?” Bill grunted. “I dunno what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“Sorry. I don’t want to risk cutting more. We’ll have to see how it progresses. I just wish I knew healing spells specifically for this.”

She could have cut the tension with a knife as they waited. She kept monitoring Bill and recoiled each time Fleur had a contraction. Bill held his wife’s hand as much as he could. Time was a blur as it went on, although Fleur’s labour was still going fast.

_Precipitous labour is defined as labour lasting less than three hours from the start of steady contractions to the expulsion of the foetus—gah! Stay on task, Hermione._

Bill’s bleeding wasn’t much better. Either the healing spell designed for clean slash wounds didn’t work on crushed organs, or there were other problems she didn’t know about. An hour later, she bit the bullet and insisted Bill drink the rest of the Blood Replenishing Potion. But that still wasn’t a permanent fix.

“ _AHHH!_ Zink ‘arder!” Fleur screamed.

“Be quiet!” she yelled. She couldn’t concentrate with all this noise. “If there’s another way I can do it… No, no, no this isn’t working. Aha! Reabsorption of the blood into the capillaries. That could work. Parchment! Quills! Self-inking!”

Percy brought some, and Hermione started frantically writing out equations. It was a pain in the arse trying to do this on living tissue, but she knew just enough about healing spells to pull it off. When the potion started wearing off again, she cast, _“Rescindo Livor,”_ and the discoloured tissue improved further. But that still wasn’t getting at the root problem.

“Body temperature’s dropping. I need heat,” she said.

They draped a blanket over most of Bill’s body, leaving enough space for her to continue working. His breathing was growing more laboured—fast and deep. She didn’t like the look of it.

“Structural changes,” she muttered to herself. “Blood vessels are lined with smooth muscle. A way to knit the muscle fibres back together…”

A loud scream intruded on her thoughts.

“Alright, push! Push!” Molly yelled.

 _Push? Already?_ This really was going to be a bit under three hours.

“That’s it, Fleur. This is going to be quick, I can tell. Breathe.”

Bill squeezed Fleur’s hand. “It’s okay, love. I’m right here,” he said.

Hermione turned away and covered her ears again. It was too much. She whined loudly and buried her head in the sofa, but it was still coming through.

And suddenly, it stopped.

For a moment, she thought she’d gone deaf. Then the sunburned feeling and the deep ache returned. And then she realised half the room was still screaming. She looked up. George was standing over her, holding the diadem in his hands.

“I told you this thing isn’t good for you,” he said. “You looked like you were about to faint.”

“It’s this environment,” she said weakly. “Too much—”

She was interrupted by a scream.

“Push! Push!” Molly said. “Ooh! I see her! She has your hair.” Fleur was babbling loudly in multiple languages so that Hermione couldn’t begin to understand her. Molly was still shouting: “That’s it! One more push…”

Hermione thought Fleur’s final scream sounded more like the _Velociraptors_ from _Jurassic Park_ than anything else, only much louder, longer, and scarier. But moments later, she stopped, and a higher-pitched wail pierced the air.

“Yes. There she is,” Molly said. She was positively beaming as she handed the baby over to Fleur. She was small, but clearly had a healthy pair of lungs, and she already had a full head of silver hair, like her mother.

“ _Oh!_ Oh, hello baby girl,” Fleur breathed.

“Oh, Fleur, she’s beautiful,” Bill said. He reached out to stroke the baby’s head, then paused. His hand was covered in claw marks.

Hermione pulled his hand back. _“Tergeo. Episkey.”_ The bleeding stopped, and the wounds closed. At least _that_ was fixable. He stroked the baby’s head as Fleur laid her against her chest. Ginny was squealing excitedly as she watched, and Molly doted over them, checking the baby over.

Hermione was seriously reconsidering whether she wanted to be a mother after watching that, but she was happy for them. In the meantime, she used Molly’s diagnostic charm on Bill again and frowned. The blood loss wasn’t as bad, but he looked worse overall. The stress of the birth probably hadn’t helped his injuries, and the overall colour of his aura was darker. His hands were trembling, and he was still short of breath.

“What name did you decide on?” Arthur asked.

Bill and Fleur looked at each other, then up at him. “We didn’t really—” Bill started.

“Nadia,” Fleur said firmly. “It means…‘Hope’ in Serbian. Nadia Wilhelmina Weasley.”

“Please don’t,” Bill said. “Of all the middle names to be saddled with.”

“See if you can stop me, Bill. I want ‘er to always be close to ‘er wonderful father.”

Bill sighed heavily. “Nadia,” he agreed.

Hermione leaned back and watched the new parents happily for a few minutes, but it soon became clear that something was wrong. Fleur quickly delivered the afterbirth, but immediately afterwards, Molly was rubbing her stomach, and she moaned in pain. There was too much blood. Molly looked at Hermione in a panic. “The bleeding isn’t stopping,” she said. “If you’re right about being able to fix it—”

“Dammit! You shouldn’t have used that potion!” Bill growled.

“Quiet, Bill,” Hermione said.

“Molly? Hermione?” Fleur said breathlessly. She sounded terrified.

“Fleur!”

“I’ve got this,” Hermione said. She pointed her wand. “ _Manifestare!_ Molly, any tears?”

“What? Er, no. It doesn’t look like it.”

“Good.” She positioned her wand and looked Fleur in the eye. “I’m sorry, Fleur. This is going to hurt. _Tetania!_ ”

Fleur let out a loud squeal even higher-pitched than Nadia’s. Her legs and hips flailed, but a moment later, Hermione cast a _Finite_ , and she fell still.

Molly checked her over. “It…it stopped,” she said in disbelief.

“I told you I could fix it.”

“Wasn’t that the curse Rookwood used on you?” George asked.

“Uh-huh. I reverse engineered it.” Most cases of postpartum hemorrhage were caused by a failure of the uterus to contract.

“Bloody hell,” Bill said. “How could you use that on her?”

“The bleeding stopped, didn’t it?” Hermione snapped. “It’s like fixing your telly by kicking it, but it’ll work in a pinch.”

Fleur took a deep breath and closed her eyes, relaxing with Nadia still on her chest. “Zank you, ‘Ermione,” she said.

“Yes, thank you,” Bill agreed. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Hermione muttered under her breath. “George, the diadem…Please?”

Her boyfriend sighed, but he handed the diadem back to her, and she placed it on her head. She immediately went back to evaluating Bill, taking in every detail. He was taking fast and deep breaths. That meant acidosis, didn’t it? She remembered from when she was thinking it through earlier. His body temperature was still low and, the bleeding didn’t seem to be slowing.

“Come on, come on, come on…” She thought back to what she knew of blood vessel structure. She didn’t actually know how smooth muscle tissue was assembled. “Dammit. Um… _Collocellae?_ ”

It was crude as hell. It would only work with collagen as designed, but it just might knit the ruptured blood vessels back together. It would also probably create some nasty scar tissue that would never heal properly, but it was better than bleeding to death.

But ultimately, it didn’t seem to be doing much to stem the bleeding. She tried to think of something else, but she didn’t really even know what the problem was. A completely shattered spleen might just not mend with the spells she had at her disposal. It took only a few minutes for her to recognise that his other symptoms weren’t improving, either. His breathing was rapid, his pulse weak, and he couldn’t stay warm. Suddenly, she made the connection.

“Oh, no,” Hermione breathed. “No no no no no!”

“What?! What is it?!” Molly gasped.

“I can’t—I can’t get ahead of this. He needs help.”

“Ahead of what?”

“Poor heart function, acidosis, and hypothermia. It’s the Triad of Death!”

Gasps circled the room. Molly squealed in fear. Fleur instinctively cradled Nadia closer to her chest as if to shield her from the horror.

“The…the _what_?” Bill said shakily. “I’ve never heard of that curse.”

“Ugh. It’s not a curse! Muggle doctors have discovered that those three problems feed into each other and cause the body to fail rapidly.” Hermione looked up very seriously at Molly and Arthur. “He can’t stay here,” she said. “Not with the shape he’s in.”

“There’s nowhere we can take him,” Arthur insisted.

“Arthur, he’s going to _die_ if he doesn’t get professional help. He can’t stay he.”

 Arthur turned white, but he said, “Madam Pomfrey was the only real Healer for the Order, and we can’t contact her safely. Even if we could get someone else, they wouldn’t have the potions he needs.”

“Then we’ll have to risk St. Mungo’s.”

“We’d never get out of there alive. The Death Eaters won’t hold back.”

“Hospital in France?”

“After last time?” Harry spoke up. “You know they’ll be watching the shortest route. Maybe muggle trains by now, too.”

“Dammit. Dammit dammit dammit.”

“Bill!” Fleur cried.

Bill shook his head. “I’m sorry, Fleur,” he whispered.

“Zere must be somezing!”

“What about a muggle hospital?”

Everyone stopped and turned to Harry in disbelief. He shrugged. “Well, if it’s not a curse wound, they can probably help him,” he explained.

“Of course. Harry, that’s brilliant!” Hermione exclaimed.

“A muggle hospital?” Molly gasped. “You can’t be serious!”

“Do you want me to try to cut him open and take out his spleen myself?” she demanded. “Because that’s the only other thing I can do here that’s not just buying time. A muggle hospital is his only hope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Manifestare: Latin for “be revealed.”
> 
> Rescindo Livor: stylised from the Latin for “reverse bruising.”
> 
> Collocellae: stylised from the Greek for “glue” and the Latin for “cells.”


	69. Chapter 69

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Please state the nature the medical emergency—Oh, wait. Wrong story. Er, JK Rowling owns all.

The sun was just peaking over the eastern horizon at the Queen’s Medical Centre in the University of Nottingham Hospital when the Weasleys invaded. Hermione did the talking (sans diadem) when Bill staggered in on his mended leg, supported by George and Percy: fell down the stairs, shattered spleen, took a while to see how bad it was, Class II to III hemorrhage, heart rate, breathing rate, body temperature, and so on.

“Are you a medical student?” one of the nurses asked.

Hermione shook her head: “My parents were dentists, and I read a lot.”

“Okay. Don’t worry. We’ll take good care of him,” the doctors said as they whisked him off to the O.R.

The waiting room was crowded with all of them there. Prewett Manor had been emptied to see to Bill, and there had been thirteen people in the house, including the baby. The immediate family was understandable, but Hermione was needed to talk their way around the doctors asking for medical records, and Harry had tagged along to avoid being the only one left behind after Muriel insisted on coming. She didn’t trust “that muggle mumbo jumbo” and planned to give the doctors what for if anything went wrong—ignoring the fact that Fleur would probably tear them limb from limb first. Arthur had also sent a message to Charlie on his ring, but he couldn’t travel in safely from overseas.

“Some of you can leave if you need to,” a nurse told them. “We can contact you when he’s out of surgery.”

Hermione looked back at the group and shrugged at the nurse: “That’s kind of you, but I expect we’ll stay. Nine of them are his immediate family to start with.”

 _“Oh,”_ she said. “Or you can go to the cafeteria if you want breakfast, then. I hate to impose, but it _would_ help if we could free up some of this space in the waiting room.”

“Hmph. Just as long as I can find a decent seat,” Muriel cut in. “I’m a hundred and eight, and I ought not to be on my feet too long.”

Hermione smacked her forehead. She was lucky that wasn’t a number that was completely impossible for muggles.

“Are you really?” the nurse said with wide eyes. “You don’t look a day over seventy-five.” Hermione thought that was being generous, but Muriel certainly didn’t look her age by muggle standards.

Muriel turned and scrutinised the nurse harshly. “Don’t flatter, girl. It’s not becoming,” she said. “And best work on that posture of yours if you ever want to attract a man—”

 _“Auntie!”_ cried Molly. “Be nice; she’s only doing her job. I’m so sorry about her, dear,” she added to the nurse.

“That’s understand at her age, Mrs. Weasley,” the nurse said, albeit frostily. “The cafeteria’s this way.”

They made their way to the cafeteria and got some breakfast, upon which most of the Weasleys promptly decided they hated hospital food. Hermione and Harry weren’t fans, but they hardly saw what the issue was. They’d both had muggle school food, and Harry had had worse than that in his life. George and Fred were also used to muggle food in the factory.

Fleur walked with them, if unsteadily, leaning on Molly. Nadia was nursing, covered by a blanket improvised into a shawl and rag improvised into a nappy since Bill and Fleur had left all of their actual nappies at their cottage. Naturally, the baby attracted attention.

“How old is she?” one of the doctors asked.

“A week!” and “An hour,” were heard at the same time. Fleur and Hermione turned and stared at each other. Hermione sighed and sank back into her seat.

“You gave birth an hour ago?” the doctor gasped.

“Yes,” Fleur said.

He noted that she wasn’t dressed for the hospital. “At home?” he ventured.

“Yes.”

“Goodness! I’ll get you to the neo-natal unit—”

“No. We are fine,” she cut him off.

“But if you’re having a problem after a home birth—”

Fleur snarled at the doctor. “I am ‘ere for my ‘husband, Monsieur. Nadia and I are fine. Now leave us alone, and see to _‘im_ before I cut out your—”

“Fleur!” Molly hissed, and her daughter-in-law fell silent. Thankfully, the chastised doctor made a hasty retreat.

“This is powder keg,” Hermione remarked to Harry.

“Yeah. I can tell,” he replied.

“We should probably get back to the you-know-where when we’re done eating,” she said. “I want to inventory what’s left of my gear. And check on Mr. Lovegood.”

“Merlin’s beard, I forgot all about him,” Harry said. “Did Luna make it out okay? She wasn’t there when we left.”

“She made it out of Malfoy Manor, but she had to Apparate. I don’t know if she got away from them tracking her.”

“Bloody hell, this day gets better and better, doesn’t it?” he grumbled.

* * *

Harry and Hermione returned to the factory and entered cautiously. “Hello? Mr. Lovegood?” Harry called.

There was a clattering sound followed by a squeak, and moments later, Mr. Lovegood stumbled into the front office holding onto a smiling Luna like he never wanted to let go.

“Mr. Potter. Miss Granger,” he said. “Thank you so much for saving my Moonbeam.”

“Hello, Harry. Hello, Hermione,” Luna said.

“Luna. Thank God _you_ _’re_ alright,” Hermione said. “You got away from the Death Eaters?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Cedric Apparated us to the Falcons’ stadium, where we borrowed a pair of brooms. Then he Apparated us to Upper Flagley, and we flew from there. We flew low, so now one saw us from the air.”

“That’s good.” Hermione sighed and sank into a worn-out office chair.

“Are you alright, Miss Granger?” Mr. Lovegood asked.

“I will be…probably. Things didn’t go so well for us.”

Harry snorted: “ _That_ _’s_ an understatement.”

“Oh, dear. Were you captured?” Luna asked.

“Yes,” Hermione said.

“ _Yes_ —and tortured within an inch of your life,” Harry said, to the Lovegoods’ horror.

“I wouldn’t go quite that far, Harry, but…yes. It was bad. The Weasleys are at the muggle hospital. Bill was hurt bad, and it was the only place we could take him. Oh, and Fleur had the baby.”

Luna _squealed_ in a way that was so normal that Hermione briefly worried she was an impostor, but she soon returned to her usual quirky self and said something about nargles she didn’t quite understand. Harry recounted the whole story as he understood it and what happened at Prewett Manor while Hermione rested for a bit, but she soon got up to look over what she had left to her name.

“Saved my coat,” she muttered. “It just might survive for the duration. My sword and buckler.” She hadn’t brought those on an infiltration mission. Maybe they would have helped. Maybe not. “The dark magic books and my spellcrafting notes. And about _half_ of my clothes and no way to carry them.” She wanted a way to pack up everything quickly in case of an emergency, and she’d lost the enchanted handbag she needed to do that. The boys’ clothes and some of the Twins’ prank products were all strewn around their rooms, and they were even further from having a way to pack up in a pinch. She could enchant another handbag, but that took time to do properly, and she was running on fumes as it was. _Tomorrow_ , she thought.

“Find anything?” Harry said.

She shrugged. “I pretty much knew what I still had,” she said. “Just wanted to be sure. Laundry’s going to be a pain in the arse from now on.”

“Harry was just telling us you lost your brooms,” Luna said. “Do you want the one I borrowed?”

 _‘Borrowed,’_ thought Hermione. She deferred to Harry, but he declined.

“You still have the Trace on you for a couple more weeks,” he said. “You need it more in case you need to move.”

“Yes. We’ll be fine,” Hermione agreed. “We should probably get back to the Weasleys, Harry. We’ll need to regroup.”

Harry nodded. They took their leave from the Lovegood and Apparated back to the hospital.

* * *

“Merlin’s pants!” Hermione whispered when she saw a flustered-looking Weasley family talking to one of the doctors and a policeman. She rushed over to them with Harry following. “What’s wrong?” she said. “Did something happen to Bill?”

The doctor stood up. “Bill is back in surgery, Miss. We’re optimistic about his recovery, but we would like to better understand his injuries.” He turned to the policeman. “Officer, this is the young woman I mentioned who helped bring him in.”

“Ah. I see.” The bobbie stood up and faced her. “Would you mind explaining again what happened to Bill Weasley?”

“Well, like I told them, he took a bad fall down the stairs,” she said, which was actually true. Where was this going?

“Is that all?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Well, according to Dr. Biswas, here, Mr. Weasley shows evidence of a pattern of injuries over time.”

 _Oh, bollocks._ “I’m afraid I only know about the fall, Officer,” she said. “I was only visiting last night.”

“But you are a family friend to the Weasleys, here?” he pressed.

“Yes.”

“We took X-rays after we got Bill stabilised, Miss,” Dr. Biswas said. “We saw evidence of a broken leg roughly six weeks ago, broken ribs four weeks ago, several more minor wounds two weeks ago, and a large amount of scar tissue around his spleen, which, frankly, I don’t know how to interpret.”

The magical healing, of course. Especially their cobbled-together, amateur magical healing. The injuries would look like they all happened at different times, and that would be suspicious to the doctors, especially if the family couldn’t adequately explain them. Normally, if they _had_ to come to a muggle hospital, they would have the Ministry to back them up and to Obliviate the doctors and get him out. No such luck here.

“You can understand why we would be concerned for him,” the bobbie said, “not to mention his wife and newborn daughter.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “I haven’t heard about any other injuries, Officer,” she said truthfully. “All I can say is that I’ve known the Weasleys since I was twelve, and I’ve never known any of them to be abusive.”

“We’ll be talking to Bill Weasley when he wakes up, but of course, we need to be thorough.” He turned to Harry, then. “And you, young man? You’re another family friend?”

Harry stared like a deer in headlamps, not expecting to be questioned. “Er, yes, sir,” he said. “I’ve known them since I was eleven. They’re the family I never had when I was little.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Biswas said. “It’s the strangest thing, though. You said you brought him straight here?” The Weasleys nodded. “Well, something else doesn’t seem right. Based on the amount he was bleeding, the condition he was in when he was admitted…I can’t prove anything, but my gut tells me he received multiple blood transfusions before he arrived.”

“Blood…transfusions?” Molly said cluelessly. “What are those?”

Hermione groaned mentally. Dr. Biswas and the bobbie stared at her in disbelief. It was only made worse by the fact that the whole rest of the family were equally confused.

“Are you taking the piss?” Dr. Biswas demanded.

As they tried to breach the communication barrier, Hermione considered whether they would believe her if she said the Weasleys were Amish. She and Harry tried to intervene, but when the doctor got through to them, Molly gasped in horror and exclaimed, “What?! But that’s black magic! You can’t do that!”

“Molly, that’s not what it means here.” Hermione cut in. “They can’t do anything with it. They just use it for replenishment.”

Dr. Biswas looked very confused, but whatever he was about to say was cut off by a loud crash and a sound of screams coming from the waiting room. The magicals all looked at each other in horror, and half of them sprang to their feet, wands still holstered, but at the ready.

“What the devil?” the bobbie said. He ran to intercept.

“Wait!” Percy was out in front, but the bobbie ran out of the cafeteria ahead of them. Percy motioned for them to stay back and looked out around the corner. They heard more screams, and he pulled back.

 _“Death Eaters,”_ he mouthed.

That got everyone on their feet, even Muriel. Hermione’s eyes scanned the cafeteria in a heartbeat. She flicked her wand and pulled the fire alarm. Unfortunately, a hospital couldn’t evacuate the whole building, but it was better than nothing.

Harry met her eyes and caught on at once. He dashed to the front of the cafeteria and made a firecracker sound with his wand. _“Back way! Back way!”_ he bellowed. The crowd turned and started the other direction before they could run straight into the killing zone. They felt a shiver as Anti-Apparition Wards came down over the hospital.

Arthur took charge of the Weasleys: “Molly, take Fleur and Muriel and get out of here.”

“No!” Fleur cried. “I ‘ave to get Bill.”

“Fleur, get your daughter out here. We’ll see to Bill.” The Weasley men rushed to the cafeteria entrance, as did Hermione, but she grabbed Harry and pulled him back.

“Harry, you have to go, too. If the Death Eaters see you, they’ll call You-Know-Who.”

“Oh, it’s far too late for that, mudblood.”

Hermione and Harry spun around to see a ratty little man in a black robe standing in the corner. “Pettigrew!” she hissed. The straggling muggles ran from what must have been the shocking sight of a rat transforming into a man.

Pettigrew tapped his nose. “I smelt the little fawn outside. Rats are good for more than just sneaking, you know.”

“Harry, run,” Hermione ordered.

“No!” Harry whipped out his wand and pointed it at Pettigrew.

Hermione started to motion for the Weasleys to run out the back way. If You-Know-Who was coming, they didn’t stand a chance out front. But at that moment, the doors slammed shut, and there was a long, echoing crash that could only be the sound of every door other in the building slamming as well. Hermione’s eyes widened fractionally, and she discreetly aimed her wand at the picture window, moving it in tiny patterns. “You couldn’t have known what city we were in,” she tried to stall.

Pettigrew laughed in that squeaky way of his. “Guess again, mudblood.” He withdrew something from his robes—a heavy book—and threw it at Hermione’s feet. She didn’t bend down, but levitated it with her other wand. It was a nutrition textbook she’d bought at the used bookshop in town. Inside the book’s cover was an inscription she hadn’t noticed before:

 

_Discarded from the University of Nottingham Greenfield Medical Library._

 

“Bugger,” she said. No time to react. “Harry!” she yelled before completing her spell: _“Findovitra!”_

Hermione had thought about how You-Know-Who had shattered all the hundreds of windows in the Ministry of Magic all at once. _He_ might have done it with raw power, but glass would break with surprisingly little force if concentrated into a small enough area. The large picture windows of the cafeteria exploded inward, to screams from the cowering muggles. Unlike at the Ministry, they were made of tempered glass, so instead of a hail of razor-sharp shards, she was only able to direct a hail of gravel-like fragments at Pettigrew. Still, Harry caught on and helped levitate the fragments. Even as gravel, being pelted by that much glass would definitely slow Pettigrew down.

With the windows clear, the crowd was able to escape that way, not that it would help the rest of the hospital. Hermione ran for it, pulling Harry along. She saw some of the Weasleys taking the same route. She heard a crash, and spells flew past them as the dove through the windows and crouched behind the outer walls. Unfortunately, that didn’t help much. It only put them in the car park, with some cover, but nowhere to go but a busy road and a residential neighbourhood on the other side—and they didn’t know how far the Anti-Apparition Wards extended. Most of the muggles were just running flat-out, but in broad daylight, it would be like a shooting gallery for the Death Eaters.

“There, my Lord! There!” a voice came from inside.

“Harry Potter!”

It was _him_.

Harry caught Hermione’s eye. He looked ready to bolt, but she held up a finger to stop him. She motioned for him to move along the wall as far as possible to stay out of sight while she looked above her head and saw what she needed just inside on the ceiling, and she threw all her effort behind her next spell.

_“Xevidono.”_

It took every ounce of her strength, but she heard the telltale creaking. She hoped the Death Eaters wouldn’t catch on before it was too late. Hermione used that distraction to bolt for the nearest car, and Harry followed her. “Dobby, help!” she called, not really expecting an answer. Peeking through the car window, they saw it.

“You cannot hide from me, Harry—What—?”

_CRASH!_

Unscrewed from their fixtures, all of the fluorescent lights in the cafeteria ceiling crashed down at once on You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters’ heads. With a lot of luck, maybe they’d get mercury poisoning, too.

“Run!”

Some of the muggles as well as the Weasleys were darting from car to car for cover, as did Harry and Hermione. But they knew they couldn’t get out of the car park fast enough. Hermione had both wands out and ready to fight. Any glimpse of a black robe she saw, and she cursed on sight, but that was the least of their worries. The sound of more distant explosions rang out, and smoke started to rise from other parts of the hospital. Hermione desperately hoped that didn’t mean what she thought it did.

There was a distinctive creaking sound, and Harry looked up.

“Look out!” he yelled. He dove and pushed Hermione down and out of the way just before a car crashed down where they were crouching.

“Potter!” You-Know-Who called. Harry looked up and saw him staring him right in the face. “The boy is mine! Kill the others!” he called. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Harry and Hermione rolled in separate directions, narrowly avoiding the curse. They didn’t pause, though, and neither did You-Know-Who. Curses flew in all directions. Hermione was vaguely aware of fights going on elsewhere in the car park.

“Ginny!”

“Fred!”

“Dad!”

“Die, blood traitors!”

There was a creaking sound as You-Know-Who lifted not one, but two more cars, and this time set them on fire before he flung them through the air. Hermione ran to get away from one of them before it crashed down. It didn’t explode on impact like a bomb like in the movies, but throwing a flaming car across a car park made a pretty impressive firestorm. She couldn’t see Harry, but she was put in sight of another masked Death Eater.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

She dodged the deadly curse while putting up a Shield Charm against a follow-up and casting a curse of her own back. She kept casting curses on the run until she managed to dive behind a van.

_BOOM!_

She was knocked to the ground as the van exploded right in front of her. Moments later, there were more explosions. She caught a glimpse of You-Know-Who hovering a foot or two off the ground, heedless to the additional exposure, gliding slowly, inexorably forward.

“How is he bloody _doing_ that?” Hermione whispered to herself, then ran again. You-Know-Who conserved his movements whilst still blocking hostile curses. He was casually blowing up random cars as he went to smoke them out.

“Miss Hermione!”

She turned to the voice. _“Dobby?”_ The elf was standing at the edge of the road, holding her sword and buckler as if to fight with them. Had he Apparated outside the Death Eaters’ wards?

“There you are, mudblood.”

Hermione spun around, Shield Charm up. It was Rookwood. He spun his wand in a triple twirl she knew intimately, and she was forced to dodge away from her own Shotgun Curse.

“Surrender, and the Dark Lord might let you live,” he said. “You can’t fight in your condition.”

“Watch me,” she growled. _“Commotio Cordis!”_

_“Zwinger! Pulmonary Oedema!”_

_“Cittadella!” He’s copying my style, now? Ossificans._

Rookwood silently made what looked like the wand motion for _Trigeminal Neuralgia_ and followed up with _“Vellere!”_

 _Screw it_ , she thought _._ _“Occulus Flammare! Tetania!”_

Hermione almost knew what was going to happen before it did. Rookwood froze for a fraction of a second in shock at having _his_ spells thrown back at him for a change. Just like Hermione, he barely dodged the first spell and was hit by the second, causing him to drop to the ground in a seizure.

“Hermione, look out!” George yelled.

She turned and put up another Shield Charm on general principle, which might have saved her life because that moment, she was knocked to the ground not by a spell, but by sixteen stone of pure muscle. A large, very hairy man with blue-black eyes and pointed yellow teeth loomed over her with his weight pressing down on her shield. She raised her other wand, but he smacked it away. She reached out and tried to summon it wandlessly again, unable to release her shield…

“Hello, girlie,” Greyback growled. “Aren’t _you_ a pretty little prize? I prefer a bit younger than you, but you’ll do…”

_“AIIIIIIII!”_

“What the— _ARGH!_ ”

Dobby charged Greyback, holding Snickersnack like a lance as he closed the distance and stabbed the werewolf in the shoulder. Greyback recoiled and jumped off of Hermione…and she didn’t fully process what happened next until it was over. She remembered Snickersnack wobbling dangerously in Dobby’s hands almost directly above her face. Reaching and grabbing the hilt before he could cut her throat by accident. Greyback charged again, and she brought her hands together and swung hard.

It actually _sounded_ like _snickersnack_ —or at least like _snick_ —when the molecule-thin blade cut through his neck. Greyback’s wand sparked with whatever curse he was about to cast as his head rolled to the ground and cracked on the pavement, a look of clear surprise on his face.

Hermione rolled over and rose into a crouch, setting Snickersnack down and summoning her other wand. Suddenly, George was there, crouching beside her.

“Bloody hell,” he said.

She looked down at Greyback’s body, but it was the sight of multiple muggle bodies strewn around the car park that unsettled her more. It was only then that she realised she was covered in blood. That was one more set of clothes ruined, she thought distantly. Even untransformed, the blood could be dangerous.

“Here, take the sword,” she said. “Thank you, Dobby. Where do the wards end.”

“At the road, Miss Hermione.”

She looked around. She couldn’t see Harry. There was a swirling cloud of smoke in the middle of the car park. But they were almost at the road already. Little more than a fence stood between them and heavy traffic (though slowed by panicking muggles running across it), and hopefully freedom. She looked down the last line of cars in the car park and saw Ginny, Fred, and Ron, all trying to catch their breaths. She couldn’t see the others and could only hope they got out. There were pinned down there with spells still flashing behind them, but the remaining Death Eaters seemed to be waiting for them to come out of hiding, which they would have to do to escape.

Suddenly, there was a shout and a bang. “There you are!” Pettigrew’s voice said, and Harry screamed. She saw them, then. Pettigrew had Harry in a choke hold and was dragging him into the open.

_“Nubes Minuta!”_

It took all her effort, but she conjured a thin wall of fog between Harry and You-Know-Who. George got the hint and started shooting hexes at Pettigrew. Pettigrew tried to pull Harry through the fog, but having to fend off the hexes at the same time gave Harry just enough leverage to break free. Hermione didn’t get a clear view, but it looked like Harry spun around, kicked him in the bollocks, knocked him to the ground and put his wand to his head all in the space of a couple seconds. There was a flash of light, and Pettigrew’s body went limp.

In that time, Hermione cast another fog wall between her and George and the Death Eaters, and she took charge: _“RUN!”_

They ran, the others casting smokescreens, too. George slashed through the fence as they reached it, and then it was chaos again. The entire verge from the fence to the road went up in flames all at once. Muggles caught in the flames screamed in agony, reminded Hermione far too much of her ordeal earlier. She spun around and saw the entire wall of smokescreen vanish in an instant.

“You will not escape!” You-Know-Who hissed. He waved his wand, and no fewer than six flaming cars rose into the air behind him. Just how powerful _was_ he?

“Just go!” Hermione screamed. She charged headlong at the fire, pulling George behind her. In other places—indoors, on tarmac—anything solid, and this wouldn’t have worked. But she cast an overpowered charm that she’d only really used in Herbology class that overturned the earth and buried the fire, opening a path through it. George cast it too and widened the path.

“Go! Go! Go!” she yelled. _“Aguamenti.”_ She cast it at her clothes and hair rather than the fire itself.

“Ginny!”

“George!”

“Harry!”

“Fred!”

“Ron!”

She ran through the flames, felt the burning on her left side, all the worse for her recent Cruciatus exposure. The space was narrow, and the earthmoving spells weren’t enough to fully protect her. Screams and curses filled the air, but she kept running. She tried Apparating. Tried again. Tried again, and…

She fell on the floor of the lobby of the factory. She was also on fire.

“AHHHH!” She flailed frantically. _“Stopdroproll! Aguamenti! Stopdroproll! Aguamenti!”_

When the dust cleared, and she came to her senses, Hermione found herself lying on her back, soaking wet, bloodstained, badly singed, and in more pain than she’d felt since she escaped Bellatrix’s clutches. She wasn’t sure she could even stand.

“Hermione?” George groaned.

“A-alive,” she groaned. “H-Harry?”

“Here,” Harry said.

Her head dropped to the floor with a _thunk_.

 _“Ginny!”_ came a cry.

 _Ginny?_ Hermione thought.

Luna ran into the room, sounding very concerned. “What are you doing here?” She knelt down, presumably beside Ginny, and started casting what Hermione could only hope were healing spells.

“We got mixed up in the fire,” Harry said. Hermione picked up her head and saw that he was as soaked as singed as she was.

“A fire?” Mr. Lovegood exclaimed. “Merlin’s beard! Was it heliopaths?”

Harry glared at him. “It was You-Know-Who.”

“Oh! That’s even worse!”

“Did you see Fred?” George said worriedly.

“No, sorry,” Harry said.

“He’s not here?” Hermione said.

“We got separated,” George said.

“Bloody hell,” she groaned. “Anyone else?”

“Not here, but they’re not supposed to be.

No one mentioned Bill. They hadn’t had any kind of chance to get back to him.

“You’re hurt,” Mr. Lovegood said. “Can we help?”

“I’ve got Burn-Healing Paste,” George said wearily. “The burns are the worst of it.”

 _For you, maybe,_ Hermione thought. She had one priority she needed to address. “Luna, I need your help,” she said. “And be careful what you touch. I need to burn these clothes and wash off. I’ve got Greyback’s blood all over me.”

Luna and Mr. Lovegood gasped. “Werewolf blood?” Mr. Lovegood said. “You weren’t bitten, were you.”

“No, just the blood. He didn’t get the chance.”

“What happened to Greyback, though?”

“I cut his head off.”

Mr. Lovegood swooned and sank into a chair. “Oh, my,” he said.

“Pettigrew’s dead, too,” Harry said. “Finally. I put a Piercing Hex through his head.”

“One more bit of good news,” Hermione said. “Dobby?” He was there, too, a little rougher up but mostly uninjured. “Thank you. You probably saved my life. That was very impressive how you charged him with the sword.”

Dobby blushed and ducked his head. “It is my pleasure to serve, Miss Hermione,” he said.

Luna was shaken by her revelation, but she grabbed some rags and the Burn-Healing Paste and helped Hermione to the bathroom without touching her directly. She would be fine unless she got a scratch from it, but better safe than sorry. Hermione could only hope she was lucky there. She removed her clothes, and Luna said she would burn them on the factory floor. Meanwhile, she wound up sitting down in the shower cubicle with the water pouring over her after carefully setting it to slightly cool. Then she finally broke down and cried from the pain.

After a while, she shut off the water and rubbed the paste over her body on her left side where the fire had got a little too hot. Once that was done, she leaned on the wall of the cubicle, too tired to move. She hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and she’d been through hell in that time. She didn’t think she’d be able to get up for quite a while.

She was half-asleep in the shower when she heard a knock on the door and a shout of “Hermione!” It was George, and his voice sounded shaky.

“George? What’s wrong?” She called back, then thought about it and added, “You can open the door, but not the curtain.”

The door banged open. “Harry and I…we got messages…on our rings,” he said.

Hermione drew a breath and braced herself. Harry had the ring that connected to Bill and Fleur, and George had the one that connected to Arthur, Molly, and Percy. “What did they say?” she asked.

“Harry’s said…Fleur, Mum, and the baby are at Shell Cottage…but Bill and Muriel didn’t make it.”

Hermione gasped. She stammered as too many thoughts crowded her head at once. “Oh, God. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe—”

“One of the Death Eaters went through the hospital and blew something up where they were working on him.”

“Nitrous oxide, I’ll bet,” she said, remembering the explosions. “Oh this is all my fault. Why does this keep going wrong?”

“It’s not your fault, Hermione,” George mumbled.

“Why not?!” she sobbed. “All of my plans go wrong!”

“It’s not,” he insisted. “I almost wish it were. Maybe it’d be easier. But it’s that bloody Death Eater’s fault.” He growled. “I bet it was Dolohov. It’s always Dolohov. I wish I could…” He stopped and let out a quiet sob. “…I’m sorry. It’s too much right now.”

“Take…take care of yourself right now, George,” Hermione said. “Listen, I—send Luna back up, I’ll need her help—I—I’ll be there as soon as I can—wait, what was the other message?”

“Dad, Fred, Ron, and Percy are at Muriel’s. They’re all alive.”

“Good. I mean…good. Send Luna, please. I’ll be right down. Oh, and…and pass the messages to the others if you haven’t.”

A few minutes later Luna helped Hermione out of the shower, and she dressed in some of her remaining clothes. In passing, Luna mentioned that Ginny didn’t have anything here, and between the two of them, they put together an outfit that more or less fit her. When Hermione descended the stairs, the boys had changed too, probably deciding that their clothes were unsalvageable. Ginny was crying on Harry’s shoulder, and Harry looked grim. The Lovegoods sat off to the side. George held her close when she sat down beside him, but she flinched away, in too much pain to do it properly. He looked like he was about to break down entirely when she did that, so she struggled to find a position where she could be comfortable.

No one spoke for a long while, but eventually, they started reviewing what had happened. “Harry,” George said, “don’t take this the wrong way, mate, but I’m kinda surprised you survived fighting You-Know-Who that long.”

Harry shook his head. “He kept throwing cars at me,” he said. “I think if he spent more time trying to curse me directly, I’d be dead.”

“Why would he do that?” Ginny asked softly.

“Our wands have brother cores. They don’t work right against each other. I told you what happened in the graveyard.” Hermione remembered that. As he’d told it, when their spells collided, a golden light connected their wands, and You-Know-Who’s wand started spitting out the spells it had cast in reverse order, including apparitions of Harry’s parents. “I figured it was just one more complication,” Harry said. “I have to land a spell on him without having it collide to get him, but he’s going more roundabout.”

“Thank God for that,” Ginny mumbled. “Anything that puts him behind.”

“He’s still too powerful to take on,” Hermione said. “If he hadn’t been so focused on you, I think he could’ve wiped most of us out. Hell, he nearly did. I don’t know how he can _get_ that much power.”

Harry shrugged: “I guess we just have to be smarter than him.”

“I hope that’s enough. Even if we destroy all the horcruxes, I don’t know how we’re going to take him down.”

“We’ll just have to try,” George said.

No one had anything to say to that. A little while later, a weasel Patronus came flying in the window. Hermione didn’t know how Arthur could cast one at a time like this, but he’d managed it. It must have been important, too. For short messages, he’d just use his ring.

“Fred, Ginny, Harry, Hermione,” he said. “Stay where you are for now—including you, Ginny. The boys and I can’t stay at Muriel’s because we don’t know how the inheritance will work in the current regime. We’re going to find a new place to hide. Don’t look for us. You know there are Snatchers out hunting for th Order. You’re better off staying there. I’ll message you again when we’re safe. Stay strong.”

The Patronus vanished, and the feeling of foreboding it had briefly driven away returned.

“What did he mean about the inheritance?” Harry said.

“In theory, Muriel should’ve been able to name her own heir,” George said, “but with the Weasleys being blacklisted, the Ministry might be able to contest it. If it passes out of the Prewett family, it won’t be Prewett Manor anymore.”

Harry groaned: “Oh…and the Fidelius Charm breaks if the secret it protects is no longer true.”

George nodded. “Mm hmm. Using the address should’ve been safer than the owner’s name, but in this case, they were the same.”

Hermione sighed. “Well, we can’t stay here, either,” she said. “The Fidelius is solid, but the Death Eaters know we’re in Nottingham. We step out those doors, and they’ll be swarming us. We need to leave before we run out of food. Sorry, Mr. Lovegood.”

“I’m sure we can find another place, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Uh huh…” She said absently. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“It’s not your fault,” Harry said. “I’m the one who suggested the muggle hospital.”

“But none of this wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t pushed so hard to raid Malfoy Manor!” she snapped. She glanced at the Lovegoods. “As happy as I am to have saved you, Luna, everything else about last night was a disaster.”

“But this is war,” George said. “Bad stuff happens. We all agreed on the Malfoy Manor plan.”

“It was Ron planned it,” Harry pointed out. “And even Kingsley agreed.”

“Well, sometimes, I wonder if people should be so quick to trust my advice,” Hermione muttered. She stood up and went to the wireless, tuning it to a muggle station.

“Um, I dunno if this is the time for music, Hermione,” George said.

“I want to hear what the muggles are saying about the hospital.”

George grimaced. “That might be even worse.”

“I want to hear it,” Harry spoke up.

“You know that wasn’t…wasn’t your fault either,” Ginny said.

“It was my idea to go to a muggle hospital, Gin.”

“You couldn’t’ve known You-Know-Who would come.”

“But it was _my_ book that led them to us,” Hermione sobbed. “I didn’t even know that inscription was there! And now, Bill’s…gone, and a bunch of other people died too—innocent muggles who never even knew what was happening.”

George came up behind her and very lightly embraced her, trying not to hurt her. “It still wasn’t your fault, Hermione,” he said.

“Maybe…but I still need to hear it,” she insisted.

She found a BBC station and waited a few minutes for a news bulletin.

_“At least twenty people are dead and dozens injured after a firebombing at the University of Nottingham Hospital in the deadliest day of the Troubles since 1979. Authorities say the bombing came without any telephoned threats or warnings for civilians, in a break from the IRA’s usual practice. The motive for attacking a hospital is unclear, but authorities say they have identified the perpetrators as a pair of IRA sympathisers named Harry Potter and Hermione Granger. Potter is carrying multiple guns, and Granger is known to police as a master of explosives and improvised weaponry. They have been seen at multiple locations around Great Britain in recent weeks and should be considered armed and very dangerous…”_

Hermione looked up and saw five horrified faces staring back at her.

“We have to leave,” she said hollowly. “Nowhere is safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Findovitra: Latin for “I cleave glass.”
> 
> Xevidono: based on the Greek for “to unscrew.”
> 
> Pulmonary Oedema: medical term deriving from the Latin for “lungs” and the Greek for “swelling”.
> 
> Vellere: an Eye-Pecking Curse. Credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: If Harry Potter falls in a forest, and no one is around to hear it, does JK Rowling still own all. Yes. Yes, she does.
> 
> There were a lot of complaints about Hermione leaving Rookwood alive in the previous chapter. Part of this was sloppy writing on my part in the first draft, which left her an opportunity to kill him that she didn't take. I wanted him to still be alive to react to the fact that Hermione can now copy his spells, and I didn’t go about that the right way. (And it ultimately turned out not to be that important.) I rewrote that section to remove that opportunity.
> 
> That said, I want to explain Hermione’s attitude here. It isn’t that she’s trying not to kill people. It’s just that usually, the Order is going up against a superior force, and they’re more focused on living to fight another day. At Malfoy Manor, Voldemort was on his way, and at the hospital, he was already there. He’s so powerful that escaping him is more important than going the extra mile and making sure the enemy is dead.
> 
> On the other hand, Hermione is not a trained soldier, and she doesn’t quite have that military attitude of shooting the enemy until he stops moving. This is a serious question: is it moral to kill an enemy when he is disarmed and incapacitated? In this situation, Rookwood wasn’t completely out of the fight, and it seems that Hermione would have been justified in putting him down harder, even lethally. But I’m not a lawyer, and neither is she, and this is something that weighs heavily on her, so I think it would be totally in character for her to hesitate.

_Day 3_

Hermione woke well past sunrise and looked the tent to find it already empty. She laid back down on her cot and groaned softly. She was still sore, even after more than seventy-two hours. Their self-imposed exile wasn’t that bad by itself. She’d been camping before, and with fewer amenities than this. She could deal with this. But Merlin, it hurt. If she didn’t move, it wasn’t be too painful, but still. Every muscle in her body was still aching like she’d worked herself to exhaustion—the aftereffects of the Cruciatus Curse afflicting her still. While the curse didn’t leave any outward signs, it felt the same as real injuries healing without medical assistance. It even hurt to eat because her jaw was so sore, and her teeth felt crooked because of it. She probably had two or three more days of muscle aches coming, maybe four before the sunburnt feeling went away.

Her real burns from the fight at the hospital had been mercifully mild with George’s Burn-Healing Paste to take care of them. Without it, they might have been much worse. To that, she could only guess that You-Know-Who hadn’t thought they would run through a wall of fire to escape him. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.

The emotional toll? That was another story. It was subdued here, these last three days. Fred and Ginny had lost a brother and Harry a foster brother. And while Hermione perhaps had been marginally less close to Bill than his own family, he was a good friend. And not only was there the pain, but both she and Harry had a hard time shaking their guilt over losing him. (Not to mention how valuable he’d been as an arithmancy partner. She felt so alone trying to figure things out, now.)

With a heavy sigh, she pushed herself upright on her cot. She felt barely functional at the moment. She moved like an old woman and didn’t wander any farther from the tent than she had to. Ignoring the pain, she strapped the holster for her vinewood wand to her right arm, leaving her left untouched. The cuts there had mostly stopped bleeding, but she still kept them covered while they were healing.

In the cramped space in the tent, Hermione pulled out a set of clothes from her meagre wardrobe and changed into them. Before they’d left the factory, Hermione, Ginny, and Luna had traded clothes so that they each had as close to equal amounts as possible, but as the tallest, Hermione got the short end of it. Harry, and George brought their own, but not all of them. Even with Dobby to help them, they had too much stuff to move and not enough time for Hermione to recreate her expanded handbag. The best thing she’d been able to find in the factory was a tatty old messenger bag. Repaired and charmed, it was serviceable, but she wasn’t able to make it big enough to hold everything like her old one yet.

Serious consideration had been given to staying in the factory and just getting food in the wilderness (or stealing it at night, if she were honest), but in the end, they decided the safest route was just to get away from civilisation entirely with the Death Eaters knowing they were in town.

That complicated matters because leaving the factory meant leaving the Fidelius charm, and Hermione couldn’t cast a new one without Bill’s help. She’d been learning it, but it was one of the most difficult charms in the book, and with everything else she had to do, she hadn’t had a chance to test it. No Fidelius Charm meant no hiding in abandoned buildings. They might be able hide the lights being on from muggles, but they would notice they tried to reconnect the water and gas. Hence the tent. It also meant George couldn’t restart the radio show for fear of the signal being triangulated, although Fred might be able to where he was.

They still went into the woods, though. After all, wizards could get by in the wilderness with little trouble. Food was the only really hard part, and that was regardless of where they went.

She pushed those thoughts from her mind. Rising and conjuring a glass of water, Hermione took some pain meds and started her day, stepping out of the magically warm tent and blinking in the cold, winter morning of the Forest of Dean.

Ginny was at the fire, cooking something for breakfast. It didn’t smell great, but she had learnt lot from her mother about making do with little, so it wouldn’t be terrible. “Morning, Hermione,” she said. “How are you feeling.”

“A little better, still,” Hermione said. At least her voice was more or less healed. “Three or four more days, and I’ll be able to pull my weight.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Ginny said. “You’ve done plenty for us.”

Hermione shrugged and winced from the twinge in her shoulder. “You checked the tent?”

“Yeah. Right when I got up. George is out hunting, by the way. Harry’s trying to fish.”

“I’ll check the wards, then,” Hermione said. She picked up a walking stick and hobbled around the campsite, checking for any weaknesses or intrusions.

Their camp was simple, by necessity. She’d lost the magical tent she’d been carrying for just such an emergency. There were two tents made from _Imperviused_ bedsheets and tarps from the factory and branches for stakes and pegs. They had to check them for damage every morning, but they were tolerable inside. A short distance away, George had built an outhouse from the same materials with a transfigured toilet. Conjured toilet paper and vanishing charms took care of any mess.

Overall, they were getting by. They had fresh water from a nearby stream and fire and charms for heat, even in the dead of winter. Together, the four of them had cast some basic wards around the camp—just enough that they would stay hidden from anyone who didn’t know exactly where to look. Hermione trudged around the perimeter, making sure they were still in place. Even so, she didn’t think she would feel really safe without some proper, rune-based wards around her.

When she was done, Harry returned from the stream. “Hey, Ginny. Hey, Hermione. I brought breakfast,” he said.

“Great,” Ginny said. She held out a pan to him, and he emptied a pillowcase that proved to be filled with small fish into it. It wasn’t much on its own, but with other people’s contributions, it would serve for the time being.

The one hard thing out here was finding food. With Harry’s and Hermione’s faces on _Wanted_ posters around the country, it wasn’t safe to get food from magical or muggle stores—which was undoubtedly You-Know-Who’s plan. It wasn’t even a hard leap. The Ministry had put Sirius’s face on muggle _Wanted_ posters when he broke out of Azkaban, too, in part for the same reason. Anyway, what food they’d had in the factory had mostly run out by now, so they had to live off the land. It wasn’t easy. Pickings were lean in winter, especially for edible plants. Even Dobby was out of his depth here.

They wouldn’t starve, of course. If it came to it, Dobby could bring food from Shell Cottage to them—the one place they could get to that still had a working Fidelius—but they didn’t want to burden Molly and Fleur any more. If it _really_ came to it, they could just hide out there, but Harry, Hermione, and Fleur all agreed it was too dangerous to have Harry anywhere near Nadia, since everywhere he went, something seemed to go wrong. So again, they were toughing it out in the woods, and that mostly by choice.

Hermione was just glad that Ron wasn’t there with them. He’d never go for living arrangements like this.

“How are you feeling, Hermione?” Harry asked.

“Getting there. Slowly,” she said.

“Anything new here?”

She shook her head. “It’s quiet this morning. Nothing disturbed. You?”

“I thought I saw some people passing by last night, but they didn’t get close,” he said.

Ginny looked up in surprise, and Hermione frowned. “Statistically, it was probably muggle campers,” she reasoned.

“Yeah, probably,” Harry agreed. “Still, I’m not comfortable staying here much longer.”

“We’ve only been here two days,” Ginny protested.

“No, it’s a good thought, Ginny,” Hermione said. “We’re not as protected here as I’d like. It’s probably better if we don’t stay in one place too long until we can do better.”

George came back a few minutes later and rejoined them. He carried a dead rabbit tied to a stick.

“Morning everyone,” he said. “Glad to see you’re up, Hermione. How are you doing?”

“Still improving,” she said. “Good hunt, George?”

He shrugged as Ginny snapped her fingers impatiently, and handed the rabbit to her. The girl didn’t flinch at the prospect of skinning and gutting a wild animal for cooking (although the magic helped the chore).

“It was okay,” George said. “It’s hard in winter. Still, who would’ve thought our pixie-hunting skills would actually come in handy for other stuff?”

“That’s good, I guess,” she said. “We’re making do, anyway.”

“I’m worried about you, though,” he told her. “You’re still healing.”

“Nothing a bit of time won’t fix, George. I’ve got bigger worries right now.”

“You need to take care of yourself, Hermione.”

“I’m doing fine,” she insisted.

He didn’t press her further. She wasn’t in the best shape, it was true, but she’d put herself through worse before without meaning to, and she’d learnt to avoid the pitfalls—some of them, at least. And they really did have bigger problems.

“George is right, you know,” Harry told her in private later. “It’s not good for you to push yourself too hard.”

She rolled her eyes. “Like you’re one to talk, Harry,” she said.

“I know. I know. My ‘saving people thing’. Still, we’re in this together, right? That’s what you keep saying. I have just as much responsibility for keeping us alive as you do. More, really, since I’m the one who has to beat You-Know-Who.”

Hermione sighed heavily. “But _I_ _’m_ the one who has to calculate how it’s even possible to do it. I’m out of my depth here. It doesn’t matter how much arithmancy I’ve learnt. He’s too powerful.”

“We’re all out of our depths,” Harry said. “We just have to do the best we can.”

“I’m worried it’s not enough,” she said. “I’m worried about keeping us alive. I’m worried about avoiding another disaster like at Malfoy Manor or the hospital…And now the muggle government thinks we’re bloody terrorists! Even if we win, that’ll be a nightmare to sort out…People might recognise me on the street…My _parents_ might have heard about it by now if they’re keeping up with the news…And they must be. You can get news from around the world on the Internet these days.”

“Can you really?” Harry said in surprise. “The last time I lived in the muggle world, they barely talked about the Internet. But yeah, my relatives might’ve heard about it too, now I think about it.”

“What will they think?”

“Eh, they’ll probably say something like—” He took on a gruff, angry voice. _“—‘I always knew that freak was no good. Terrorist indeed. Should’ve drowned him as soon as we found him like a runty pup.”_

“Harry!” Hermione gasped.

“Well, that last bit was more Aunt Marge, but you know none of them ever liked me,” he said.

It always made Hermione sad to see how casually Harry shrugged off any mention of his relatives. She couldn’t imagine living with people like that. And it raised some uncomfortable implications. “Are you doing okay, Harry?” she asked with concern.

“Sure, why wouldn’t I be?” he answered.

“You mean besides _everything?_ ” Hermione pressed. “But really, I’m a bit concerned because you told me before about your cupboard. I don’t know if these cramped tents are uncomfortable for you.”

Harry’s eyebrows rose, as if he hadn’t even considered that. “They really aren’t,” he said. “I mean, it’s like on one hand, I’m kinda used to it—or I was—but on the other, they’re not really the same thing. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. That’s all behind me.”

“Ah. I’m glad to hear that…” Another thought struck Hermione. “Does Ginny know about, er, your childhood?” she asked more quietly.

“Of course,” Harry said. “She was pissed when I told her. I had to stop her running off and killing the Dursleys, but she knows.”

Hermione nodded. That was one less thing to worry about. Anything that could cause drama in these close quarters was a concern. But then she sighed. “And now we have a whole other level of problems,” she muttered.

“Hey, look on the bright side, Hermione,” he insisted. “The Ministry’s gonna clear all that up when this is over, right? So your folks will know right away when we’ve won ‘cause there’ll be a big correction story.”

“Unless that gets buried too, but yeah. It’d be the only reasonable thing to do,” she said, ignoring he uncertainty about the phrase _when we_ _’ve won._ “You know, I’ve been thinking, Harry. I should probably disable your ring—the side connecting you to Fleur.”

Harry looked down at the gold band on his hand. “You do? Why?” He asked.

“We don’t know what happened with Bill’s ring. If the Death Eaters have it—it’s not supposed to work for anyone but the owner, but Rookwood might be able to reverse-engineer it. I can dissolve the Protean Charm to stop that. Molly’s with Fleur, and they won’t be going anywhere magical for a while, so…”

“Yeah, good point,” he said.

“Just send Fleur a message to warn her, and I’ll deactivate it.”

Harry agreed, so that was one less thing to worry about. George could still contact Molly. Still, pretty much the only news they would get at this point would be passed between Order members through the rings. Hermione wasn’t really aware of what was going on, now, and she wasn’t completely certain of who was even alive. Presumably, the Order was still saving muggle-born children and sabotaging the Death Eaters at critical points, but the more the net was tightened, the harder it was. At this point, most of them were probably focusing on staying alive, like her.

How did guerrilla warfare succeed in the muggle world? Hermione was hardly an expert. They dug in for the long haul, for certain. These things could last for years, if not decades. Patience was critical, as painful as it was. Recruiting was, too, but it was dangerous. Word of mouth and the wireless, if they could get it running again. They would have to play it like the Death Eaters themselves had: wearing masks and making hit-and-run strikes on critical targets as the opportunity arose. The trouble was that the Death Eaters had the advantage of experience—and they were more brutal. It would be hard to outdo them.

Of course, Harry and Hermione had something muggle guerrilla movements didn’t: the secret of how to take down You-Know-Who. Most (though not all) muggle revolutions were hydras, with a new leader ready to stand up if the old one was killed. But history had proved that You-Know-Who was the linchpin that held the Death Eaters together. He was the most powerful by far, and he was really the only force keeping them in line under pressure.

So while the best thing for the Order to do might be to emulate the Death Eaters in strategy the best they could, the best thing for _Hermione_ to do would be to keep doing what she had been doing: finding a way to remove the horcrux from Harry, and to find the others.

Of course, that was when they weren’t worried about making it through the next twenty-four hours. She took out her notes to get to work one two issues more pressing than Harry’s problem: a proper ward scheme and dealing with their food problem.

* * *

“Cellulose,” she muttered. “Flip some of the glucose rings around to make amylose starch. Break it up into a branched structure to make amylopectin. And depolymerise it to make simple sugars. That’s the easy part, though.”

Maybe food was the least dire issue, since Molly could provide extra, but Hermione felt like she owed it to her and Fleur—and to herself—to get her cell in the woods self-sufficient. Solving that problem would also help the rest of the Order if they could use it too. Luckily, Hermione had one muggle book to help her out—the same book that had doomed them at the hospital, but if there was one book she needed now, it was this one: _Introduction to Nutrition and Metabolism_.

It wasn’t as simple rearranging organic molecules as it was making diamonds, she found. Gamp’s Law wasn’t as just about food versus not food, even when it involved rearranging atoms instead of transfiguring them. It seemed to work differently for organic and inorganic material. So while she could process aluminium oxide from the soil essentially for “free”, making useful foodstuffs cost energy. The amount of food she could make was proportional to the effort she put into her spells. She’d got lucky with cellulose to lignin. This she had to do more carefully.

Luckily, pushing existing biomolecules around was much easier than making them from scratch. The trees had done the hard work of building the cellulose, and breaking it back down into glucose took maybe a fortieth the energy of the glucose itself, and going from one polymer to another was even cheaper. They wouldn’t be wanting for raw calories.

“Carbohydrates taken care of,” she muttered.

Even better was if she could use an exothermic reaction to feed into an endothermic one. For example, breaking down glucose into pyruvate produced energy, which she could then feed into converting it further to amino acids (which was basically how cells did it in the first place). That was easy enough to do with a runic array. She just needed a source of fixed nitrogen, and since ammonia wasn’t organic, she could make that nearly for free as well (an incredibly valuable result, maybe even moreso than the diamonds).

“Proteins are covered, or at least essential amino acids. Everything balances out nicely. Thank you, Antoine Lavoisier.”

Lipids were the really hard part. They were expensive to make, energy-wise. She could make enough to feed four people if she had to, but it would take an effort. She’d have to bite the bullet and separate them out from the plant matter directly.

“Wait a minute,” Harry’s voice cut in on her thoughts like a knife.

She looked up. “What?”

“Aren’t the proteins part of the plant matter, too?”

Hermione’s mouth dropped open. “Yes…How did _you_ know? You’ve never taken a biology class.”

“Hermione, you’ve been saying everything you’re doing out loud this whole time.”

She looked around. The four of them were sitting around the campfire. She’d been aware of the others, of course, but they drew her attention now.

“Yep,” George said. “I dunno what you’ve been talking about, but you’ve been telling us everything.”

She felt her face grow hot. “Oh. Sorry,” she said. “I lose track sometimes when I’m using the diadem.”

“Don’t be. It’s entertaining,” Ginny said.

Hermione glared at her since she couldn’t reach far enough to slap her in the back of the head.

“I was just wondering,” Harry said. “If the proteins are in the plant matter, why don’t you just separate those out, too?”

She stared at him for a minute. “…because.”

She went back to her work.

“No, really,” George said. “If there’s an easier way to do it, why aren’t you doing it?”

“I need to be able to do it from scratch,” she said.

“Er, no, you really don’t,” he insisted. “You don’t even need to do this at all.”

“Today,” Hermione scoffed. “We don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow. I need to make sure I can do this no matter what resources I have at hand. And copy it for other people to use.”

“Well, that’d be nice, but it’s really not that difficult for wizards to get food,” George insisted.

“It’s still a valuable project. And this is the only muggle book I’ve still got. I ought to put it to good use. Now, for the vitamins…”

“Hermione, I think maybe you’ve had enough of that diadem for now,” George said.

“I’m doing fine— _GAAH!_ ” he snatched Ravenclaw’s diadem off her before she could stop him. She blinked a few times as her mind readjusted. “Thanks, I needed that,” she said.

“Aren’t you glad you have me around?” he said and kissed her. Ginny made over-the-top gagging sounds, but Harry quickly shut her up.

* * *

“Neville, I need to talk to Professor Babbling. Can you get the mirror to her discreetly?” Hermione asked.

“I think so,” Neville said. “Hmm…Lavender knows her pretty well, and she’s always got a mirror with her. She can get in without suspicions.

“Great. Tell her I need it done as soon as possible.”

Neville got the mirror to Professor Babbling through Lavender pretty quickly, and Hermione was greatly relieved to have an actual expert in runes to consult about the wards.

“An eight-layer ward system?” Babbling said. “But that’s unstable. Obviously a seven-layer system is the strongest.”

Hermione shook her head. “In the western system, yes,” she said. “But in _eastern_ numerology, eight is the most powerful magical number. You can rewrite the arithmantic equations to get equivalents to a lot of our spells with a different basis.”

“Ah. Eastern numerology,” she replied. “I…I can see how that would work. I’ve rarely had cause to use it even in writing Chinese runes, but there’s no real reason it couldn’t work in western languages. Let me see what you’ve got so far…”

* * *

_Day 4_

“Vitamin B12.” Hermione opened the book to that page and frowned. “Ugh. What is this mess?”

B12 was a monster—three times the size of any of the other vitamins. At first, it looked like a blob of random atoms strung together, but as she stared at it, she began to see some structure. “Okay, that’s an adenosine…with a deoxyribose. And…those are amide groups around that big ring. And that weird tail is…wait, no. That’s just another amide connected to the adenoside. Okay, this is doable…” She started drawing out the runic diagram for the giant molecule.

“Hey, aren’t those vitamins already in plants, too?”

“Shut up, Harry!”

* * *

“Okay, it looks like this is coming together, Professor,” Hermione said.

“Well, it’s already more warding than most people would use for a campsite, Miss Granger,” Professor Babbling said.

“Most people aren’t the most wanted magicals in the country,” she retorted.

“Fair enough, but wards to block house elves?”

“The Death Eaters have them. If I can call on Dobby for help, they can send one of theirs to hurt us. I need to head them off,” she said. Dobby nodded enthusiastically beside her.

Babbling thought for a minute. “Do you really think they would? No one ever bothers about house elves.”

“That’s exactly why they’re so dangerous. No one expects them. Besides, Umbridge had the elves informing to her when she was at Hogwarts.”

“Umbridge was a career bureaucrat. That didn’t surprise me. You-Know-Who doesn’t seem the type, though.”

“Maybe he’s not, but Rookwood _is_ ,” Hermione said defensively.

Babbling nodded slightly. “I’m not saying I’m against it, Miss Granger. I’m not sure how to do it, though. Maybe a professional warder could, but it’s not something you encounter much.”

“It is being Old Elf Lore, Professor Babbling,” Dobby said. “I knows how it works.”

“Dobby knows the runes behind it,” Hermione explained. “Or at least the outline of it. Elves took a greater role in maintaining rune stones in the old days—before the Statute of Secrecy.” It was sad when she thought about it. It wasn’t the Statute of Secrecy so much as the insular attitude it engendered. It even made the purebloods insular to their own servants. But it worked in her favour here.

“Really?” Babbling said. “I suppose that’s not too surprising. I can take a look, then.”

“Thank you, Professor. After that, I’ve got an idea for the last layer I want to run by you. I wrote it out ages ago, but I never had occasion to use it.” Hermione held up her notes to the mirror for her to see.

Professor Babbling squinted into the mirror and tried to make sense of what she was seeing. “What the…? That…I have _never_ seen that language before, and I though I could recognise all of them,” she said. “What _is_ it.”

“Klingon.”

* * *

“Unsupported flight,” she muttered. “Unsupported flight. How is he _doing_ that.”

Ginny yawned loudly. “Are you still up, Hermione?” she asked.

“I just don’t understand how You-Know-Who could fly like that,” Hermione said. “It might be the greatest advancement in charms in the past fifty years, and I have no idea how he pulled it off.”

“Don’t worry about it. _You_ _’re_ the one who said he was just showing off. You should go to sleep.”

* * *

_Day 5_

“How are you doing, Hermione?” George asked.

“Still a little sunburnt, or the equivalent, but the aches and pains have mostly gone away.”

“You slept late again,” he said.

She shrugged. “I was up late last night. Too much on my mind.”

He frowned. “Still working with the diadem?”

She sent him a weak glare, but her heart wasn’t in it. “I wasn’t wearing the diadem. You know I can get completely caught up in things without it.”

“That’s not exactly a good thing,” he insisted.

Hermione sighed and leaned against George, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “I know it’s a bad habit,” she said. “I try to deal with it, but it’s still hard sometimes.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I’m here, isn’t it,” he said with an exaggerated heroic tone.

She rolled her eyes. “Of course, George.”

“So you’re feeling better, then?” Harry asked.

“Mostly.”

“Good.” Harry surveyed their location. “I think we should move camp today. I feel vulnerable here.”

“We can if you want, but statistically, there no way a small population of wizards could find us in the whole country.”

“I know, but my gut says we need to keep moving.”

Ginny came up and stood by Harry. “Yeah, I feel the same way,” she said. “Remember, You-Know-Who has the Department of Mysteries. Who knows if they could find a way to track us given enough time?”

Hermione conceded the point. Of course, stronger wards like Unplottability or the Fidelius wouldn’t break, but could they get through the slight protections they’d placed here? It could be. “Fair enough,” she said. “I’ve got my ward scheme figured out for the new site, anyway. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make ward stones. We’ll have to find a new location first, then have Dobby help us move the stuff.”

It was agreed that Hermione should continue to pick the next campsite, since she had travelled the most in the muggle world and would think of places the Death Eaters wouldn’t. She considered Colsterworth in Lincolnshire, but discarded it. It was the birthplace of Isaac Newton, and while that sounded like one of the most muggle places possible, Newton was also an alchemist. Ashdown Forest was a possibility. She doubt any of the Death Eaters knew Winnie-the-Pooh. But it was also barely five miles from her old home—too obvious.

“Come on, something only muggles would know or care about,” she muttered to herself. Then she went for the obvious solution and used Ravenclaw’s diadem to refresh her memory.

_“Eureka!”_

* * *

_LLANFAIRPWLLGWYNGYLLGOGERYCHWYRNDROBWLLLLANTYSILIOGOGOGOCH_

George and Ginny both gaped at the roadside sign. Harry raised his eyebrows, but it wasn’t completely unfamiliar to him. “So…your strategy is to hid somewhere that no one can pronounce to make it harder to find us?” George said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but laughed all the same. “I wanted someplace wizards would never think to look. This village is only notable because the muggle council changed their name to _that_ in the 1800s to attract tourists.” She pointed at the sign. “I came here once with my parents to have our photos taken with it.”

They ended up not staying in Llanfairpwllgwyngyll, though. Instead, they went to a more isolated wooded area on the other side of the Menai Strait. It wasn’t very big, but with proper wards this time, they should be fine. Dobby helped them move everything over, and they settled in.

* * *

“For the record, vitamin B12 is only found in animals.”

“Fine,” Harry groaned. “So you’re ready to show us this project you’ve been working on.”

“Uh huh. It should be just about done,” she said excitedly. Hermione had collected the vitamins and essential fatty acids she’d made and the minerals she’d collected into glass phials. Soil was a large percentage silica, so she could make all the glass she’d ever need, along with aluminium, steel, and titanium. They weren’t easy to mix. Many nutrients were measured in _micrograms_ ; a thimble full of B12 could supply a small village for a year. But she mixed them in the right ratios, added them to the macronutrients, added some water, raw cellulose for fibre, synthesised some baking soda, and she was set. When she was ready, she cooked the whole thing over the fire.

For flavour, there was plenty of sugar, but she’d also taken the last of the honey from their stash at the factory, and when she separated out the water and sugars, she used a reverse process to determine the molecular composition of the remainder. It turned out to be mostly gluconic acid. When she added it, it was a little off, but it worked.

She slid a large, flat loaf of some that looked plausibly like bread out of the frying pan and onto a plate. Tearing a bit off with a napkin, she blew on it to cool it and took a bite.

“Hmm. Not bad…Not stellar, but decent,” she said thoughtfully. “Here, try some.”

Ginny, Harry, and George all hesitantly took a bite. Ginny made a face—not disgusted, but maybe more confused than anything else. “What is it?” she asked.

 _“Exactly,”_ Hermione said.

“Huh?” said George.

_“When the people of Israel saw it, they said, ‘What is it?’—Manna—For they did not know what it was. It was like coriander seed, white, and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey.”_

“Manna,” Ginny said sceptically. “Sorry, Hermione, but this doesn’t taste heavenly.”

“No, flavours are hard,” she admitted. “But it’s perfectly nutritionally balanced. You could literally eat nothing but this and still be healthy.”

“Ugh. But who would want to,” Ginny shot back. “I think I’m a offended on Mum’s behalf.”

“It _does_ taste kinda like honey,” Harry said with a shrug. “Maybe like honey and dry cereal, but in bread form.”

“Eh, it’ll do if we don’t have anything else,” George said.

“Well, that’s sort of the point,” Hermione said. “I can make this out of wood and dirt. We can eat this if we literally have nothing else.”

“But we don’t need food that badly,” Ginny said. She’d tolerated Hermione’s antics at first, but her patience was wearing thin. “And we won’t as long as we have Mum and Fleur on call. We don’t need this stuff at all. Shouldn’t you be just working on the horcrux problem?”

“Ginny, I’ve spent the past five days figuring out how to secure our food and shelter,” she snapped. “Now that’s secure, tomorrow is when the real work can start.”

“Okay, the wards make sense, but we don’t need this Manna. There’s no point!”

“Well, I’m sorry if I’m concerned for our well-being. Harry was being paranoid about moving camp. I’m allowed to be paranoid about our food supply.”

 _“Paranoid?”_ Ginny snapped.

“Whoa! Leave me out of this,” Harry said.

George laid a hand on Hermione’s shoulder. “Hermione, I love you, and this is brilliant alchemy, but Ginny kind of has a point,” he said.

She threw up her hands: “I don’t know, then! I had to see the project through! I had too many ideas bouncing around my head. It’s hard enough to focus with the diadem as it is. I felt like I had to let this one out.”

“Are you sure that thing’s even helping?” Ginny demanded, folding her arms.

“Oh, it’s helping. _Maybe_ I could have created Manna _and_ designed a new ward scheme in five days without it, but I would have needed my books. The photographic memory it gives you is more than worth it by itself.”

“It doesn’t do much good if you can’t work on the most important project.”

“I _am_ working on the most important project, Ginny,” Hermione said. “I _have_ been for a year and a half. I’m making even more progress since I got the diadem, but it’s not easy to work with. You take it and see if _you_ can do any better.”

Ginny didn’t respond to that. George and Harry looked concerned, but they didn’t seem to know what to say. They sat in silence for a while. “Anyway, this is dinner,” Hermione said when the next loaf of Manna was done. “One pound dry is enough for a normal day. More if you’re doing strenuous activity.” She stood up and retired to the girls’ tent to look over her notes some more.

She wasn’t entirely sure how long it was before Ginny came in. When she noticed, she put her notes away and got ready for bed herself. It wasn’t until both girls were lying in their cots before Hermione spoke.

“Ginny, I’m sorry,” she said. “I know you’re just worried about Harry.”

Ginny sighed: “Yeah I am…I still think the Manna was pointless.”

Hermione would have shrugged if she’d been upright. “Maybe it was…You know this problem might still be impossible. I’m doing everything I can, but some things are just unsolvable.”

“I’m trying not to think about that,” Ginny said. “I don’t think I could bear losing Harry—not after everything else—everyone else we’ve lost.”

Hermione propped herself on her elbow despite the fact that they couldn’t see each other in the dark. “You love him,” she said.

Ginny chuckled hollowly. “I’ve told myself I loved him since I was about nine years old, but yeah. I think I do…So yes, I’m going to snap at you sometimes. Sorry. I need to feel like we’re doing _something_.”

Hermione lay back down on her cot. “Don’t worry, Ginny,” she said, “I don’t think you could be harder on me than I am on myself.”


	71. Chapter 71

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: JK Rowling is exothaumic. She creates more magic than she consumes.

_Day 6_

_“Tell me where you’ve been! TELL ME! CRUCIO!”_

“Hermione! Hermione, wake up!”

“AIEEEEE!”

_SMACK!_

_THUD!_

“ARGH!”

Hermione scrambled for her wand and sat bolt upright. But by the time she’d swung it around, she saw that it wasn’t Bellatrix Lestrange torturing her again on the marble floor. It was Ginny whom she’d just punched in the face and was about to literally flay alive if she hadn’t come to her senses. She sighed and collapsed back on her cot, the energy draining out of her.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Ginny gasped. “I forgot how good your right hook is.”

“I’m so sorry, Ginny. Are you alright?”

Ginny touched her face where a bruise was starting to form. “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I think George still has some of that Bruise-Healing Paste.”

“Really, Ginny. It’s getting worse. I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you one of these nights.”

“I’ll just have to be more careful about waking you up, then,” she insisted. “I can handle it…We all have nightmares, you know. There’s no shame in it. You should try to get some more sleep.”

Hermione looked around and saw the sky beginning to grow light in the east. “I don’t think I can,” she said, “and it’s almost morning now, anyway. I want to get back to work.”

Ginny shrugged: “Suit yourself.”

Hermione didn’t respond. She sat up again and rubbed her temples, trying to clear her head. She hugged her pillow to herself. Strange that the nightmares didn’t start in earnest until the physical pain went away. Physically, she was getting better, but mentally—she had a sinking feeling that she’d be struggling with this for a very long time.

She pushed the thoughts away and grabbed her arithmancy notes. She still had a lot to do.

“How to remove a horcrux,” she said to herself. That was the fundamental question. Nevermind that the horcrux ritual that had latched a piece of You-Know-Who’s soul onto Harry hadn’t been completed. Ritual magic was steeped in the intent of the caster, and the intent to murder had certainly been there.

She worked at it for a while that morning with no clear progress. It was clear enough that the solution to remove the soul from Harry would have to be a ritual. If it took a ritual to achieve, it almost certainly took a ritual to undo. You could maybe do it with overwhelming power, but the side effects would be exponentially worse. In fact, she had worked out a lot of material over the past year and a half—even the rough outline of aritual—but there were still a lot of blanks to fill in.

She was uniquely positioned to do it, though. Unlike most magic, which broke the usual rules all over the place, ritual magic had at its core a principle that was much more familiar to Hermione’s scientific mind: equivalent exchange. Like the conversation laws of muggle physics, if you wanted to get a powerful magical effect out of a ritual, you had to “pay” something of equal value into it. The horcrux ritual “sacrificed” a life a gain a life, for example—albeit a life of a very different character.

Another plus was that rituals were often reversible. This might surprise those who were not well-versed in the subject, but again, with conservation laws, that was perfectly reasonable. In fact, there was a ritual to reverse the horcrux creation itself recorded in _Secrets of the Darkest Art._ The “secret sauce” was _remorse_. It was impossible to reverse the murder, but the caster could take back the sentiment _behind_ the murder and give back their anchor to life in order to make their soul whole again. Unfortunately, this reversal ritual could only be performed by the original caster, for obvious reasons. And it wouldn’t actually leave Harry alive anyway. She had to find an inverse under a completely different Lagrangian, so to speak.

So Hermione needed to create a new ritual—a ritual of exorcism—that was in opposition to the horcrux ritual, but not a direct arithmantic inverse. Luckily, it would be simpler than the original The horcrux ritual consisted of three components: first, the preparation of the soul, including several steps leading up to the murder to ensure it would break in a controlled fashion; second, a series of several steps to accomplish the breaking and insert it into the vessel; and third, the steps to seal the soul fragment in the vessel, using its life force to render it virtually indestructible. Hermione really only needed to counter the middle part to get the fragment out of Harry. She wouldn’t need the decades it took Herpo the Foul to invent the horcrux in the first place.

And of course, ritual magic was nearly perfect to mathematise, as Hermione had already shown, because there was a correspondence between conservation laws and mathematical symmetries. According to Noether’s Theorem, if the Lagrangian of a system was invariant with respect to one quantity, it was possible with some calculus to compute another quantity that was invariant with respect to time—that was conserved. If the Lagrangian was invariant with respect to position, momentum was conserved. If the Lagrangian was with respect to complex rotations of the quantum wavefunction, charge was conserved.

And if the arithmantic Lagrangian was invariant with respect to fission operators on the soul, life was conserved—or at least that was the closest she could render it into words that existed in the English language.

The point was, she could apply Noether’s Theorem to ritual magic to figure out most of the structure of the necessary ritual, but computing the cost, and a way to pay it without killing Harry, was a separate arithmantic problem and not at all an obvious one. There were all sorts of arithmantic rules to convert spell effects to mathematical formulae, but for ritual magic, she was in uncharted territory. Converting ritual acts and effects to equations was a matter of extrapolation from spells, and plain guesswork.

“Now, creating a horcrux is an unnatural act,” she said, making some notes in her notebook. “So removing it should restore the natural order. The overall reaction should be exothermic—exothaumic? It should be easier, anyway. We hope it won’t require a life…” She looked back at the horcrux ritual again. “So what’s the inverse of a life for a life?” she repeated. “It can’t just be binding someone else to Harry’s fate. That won’t help. Maybe…putting in the time and effort to create a _new_ life?” She stopped and considered that and surreptitiously glanced over at Ginny. In some muggle notions of magic…“No. It might work in principle, but Molly would kill me… _Ginny_ would kill me. And regardless, it wouldn’t be fast or reliable enough. I need something else.

“Ugh. It would be so much easier if we could just blow something up to fix this…Hmm, now there’s a thought. I’ll file that for future use. Of course, my options will be a bit limited. This isn’t just George and Fred’s fireworks. I’d probably have to find a library—”

She stopped cold.

“Oh, I’m an idiot. _Harry!_ ”

Harry, George, and Ginny all scrambled over to her, wands drawn. “Hermione, what’s wrong?” Ginny said.

“Sorry, sorry,” she said. “It’s not an emergency. I just realised this isn’t as good a hiding spot as I thought.”

“Why not?” Harry said, his voice tight.

“I was so busy thinking about Llanfair-whatever, I forgot that Bangor University is about two miles up the road.”

Harry narrowed his eyes quizzically, but the others gave her a blank look. “Is that bad?” asked George.

“Thousands of muggle university students squeezed into a town smaller than the university itself, with little forested area around?” Hermione answered. “We’re probably okay for now, but as the weather gets warmer, there are going to be campers here—or biology classes, or just muggles wandering off on a lark…Sorry, now I’m the one freaking out about our hiding spot.”

“No, it’s good you thought of it sooner than later, Hermione,” Harry assured her. “I wasn’t wanting to stay in one place too long anyway, even with the wards. Do you want to pack up now?”

“Not just yet. There are a couple of things I want to do around Bangor first.”

* * *

_Day 8_

“Miss Hermione,” Dobby reported in. “I found the school library, but they is being open all hours.”

Hermione nodded. “I figured as much.” University libraries would only be safely accessible during holidays. “What about the public library?”

“I found that too, Miss Hermione. It is being open nine thirty to six thirty.”

“Good enough,” she said. “It won’t be as technical, but it’ll have to do. I know this isn’t ideal, Dobby, but I need you to take me there at midnight tonight. And we’ll just have to hope their security system isn’t sophisticated enough to be a problem.”

“What’s this?” George cut in, having overheard their conservation. “Hermione Granger stealing from a _library?_ I am _shocked!_ ”

“It’s not stealing,” she defended herself. “I’ll return the books when we leave the area. That’s what a library is for, after all…I’m just doing it without a card, is all.”

* * *

_Day 11_

“You know,” said Ginny as she lounged on her cot. “Stealing a Bible has got to be bad karma.”

Hermione glanced up at the redhead, who shot her a cheeky grin. “You’re mixing religions,” she replied.

Ginny grinned wider. “Still, it’s bad form, isn’t it?

She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t steal the Bible, Ginny. It’s a Gideons Bible. They give them away for free.” She was just lucky the library had a stack of them. She knew she wanted a new copy to keep. Not for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of carrying all of her non-incriminating books with her that fateful night.

“Oh, that’s nice,” Ginny said. She was silent for a minute, then added, “Anything useful in there?”

“For your moral edification, plenty.” Hermione gave her a cheeky grin back. She flipped a few pages and cleared her throat dramatically: _“If your soul abhors my rules, so that you will not do all my commandments, but break my covenant, then I will do this to you: I will visit you with panic, with wasting disease and fever that consume the eyes and make the heart ache. And you shall sow your seed in vain, for your enemies shall eat it. I will—”_

“No, no, no!” Ginny said, waving her off and trying to sound put-upon, but failing to resist laughing. “Look, I like Sunday school as much as the next girl, but I meant anything _practically_ useful. I mean, _you_ _’re_ the one who decided to make Manna.”

Hermione giggled and turned back to the passage she was looking at. “Well, there is this,” she said. _“And Aaron shall cast lots upon the two goats; one lot for the Lord, and the other lot for the scapegoat. And Aaron shall bring the goat upon which the Lord’s lot fell, and offer him for a sin offering. But the goat, on which the lot fell to be the scapegoat, shall be presented alive before the Lord, to make an atonement with him, and to let him go for a scapegoat into the wilderness.”_

Ginny sat up, suddenly very attentive. “Do you think that would work?” she said.

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.”

“Where would we even find a goat?” she mused. “Would we have to steal one?”

“No. No stealing,” Hermione said firmly. “This is a _light_ ritual. That means the goat would have to be lawfully purchased and killed humanely. If you stole it, it would be a dark ritual. But I’m trying to figure out if it would work for what Harry needs. The connection isn’t obvious.”

“Well, an animal sacrifice is a good step down from a human sacrifice,” she suggested.

“Yes, but it’s not so simple to fill in the arithmantic terms, and this…we could ‘scapegoat’ the horcrux by transferring it to the goat. But the goat is meant to be left alive, which defeats the purpose. There are a few other options in here…No, this isn’t going to work. I don’t want to go down the road of invoking a priestly sacrifice ritual from another faith. Ugh. Maybe we should just try to find an exorcist.”

Ginny gasped in horror: “An exorcist? You mean the witch-hunters who used to torture kids for doing magic?”

Hermione looked up at Ginny with wide eyes. When she put the pieces together, she was taken aback. Of course accidental magic could look like demonic possession to people who thought that’s what epilepsy was, especially in the days when Obscurials were recorded. “No, of course not!” she said. “I mean—yes, it’s technically the same office, but it’s completely different now. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. This is a piece of a human soul, not a demon. It’s not going to be repelled by crucifixes and holy water.”

“Oh. Right. But the animal sacrifice?”

“I don’t know. Something doesn’t sit right about that—like it’s too simple. I’ll keep trying, though.”

“Alright.” Ginny yawned. “Well, I’m going to sleep, if you don’t mind.” She scooted down in her bed and reached off to shut off the lamp. “Are you good?”

She shook her head. “I can put up a curtain or something for you, but I’m going to work a while longer.”

Ginny paused and propped herself up on her elbow. “Hermione? I know I get on your arse a lot about Harry, but you _do_ need to sleep.”

“I want to finish this part first.”

“That’s what you said last night when you stayed up another two hours.”

“It was harder than I thought,” she defended herself. “I don’t want to lose my place here. Besides, the late nights are when it finally gets quiet enough that I can really focus with the diadem on.”

Her friend sighed: “You know, George isn’t the only one who worries about you not taking care of yourself. We all do. I’m sorry for being a prat about everything last week. I can see how things are eating at you. If you need a quieter place to work during the day—”

“It’s not just you. It’s the daylight. The activity. My own state of mind. Everything contributes to it.”

Ginny fell silent. Hermione was well aware this wasn’t healthy, but with the stress she was under, dealing with that was far down her priority list. As soon as she figured out the ritual, she kept telling herself, she could rest properly.

It didn’t help that she always felt like she was wasting her days. Some days, it got to be mid-afternoon, and all she wanted to do was go back to bed. Or late at night, she’d finally get on a roll and wanted to try to catch up, and she didn’t want to give until she was writing gibberish for the last few lines on the page, and sleep took her by force.

It was hard. Part of her wanted to tell Ginny all of that—or George or Harry—but the rest of her didn’t feel like she had the time to spare to deal with them worrying about her. So she brushed it off.

“Go to sleep, Gin,” she said. “I’ll put up a curtain for your side.”

Ginny frowned, but she reluctantly turned over and settled into her cot. “Okay, Hermione. Just know that we’re here for you.”

Hermione grunted and magicked up a curtain between them.

She woke the next morning with the lantern still on and her notes sprawled on her chest. She jerked away from her ongoing nightmares and panted for breath. It was the hospital this time, but also with Bellatrix. She pushed it from her mind. It was just beginning to be daylight, and she estimated she’d slept for only five or six hours. That tended to happen when she left the light on, which was fine by her because she could get an hour or two of work in before the chores of the day caught up with her. But being the second night in a row of that, it did, after fighting it for quite a while, have her reaching for her nutrition book to look up the molecular structure and dosage for caffeine.

* * *

_Day 18_

George stepped into the wards with a grin on his face and holding a large, feathered mass by its feet. “Evening girls—and Harry,” he said. “We’ll eat well tonight. I nailed a duck down on the water.”

“Ooh! Roast duck!” Ginny said excitedly. “We don’t get that very often, even at home. It’ll be a nice change from rabbit stew and fish fry.”

“I thought you’d like it,” George said as he set the duck down in the middle of the camp. “Hermione, what do you think? Good catch, huh?”

Sure.” She kissed him on the cheek. “You _are_ getting good at hunting. So you decided you’re done with wabbit season?”

George looked at her strangely. “You mean rabbit season?”

“That’s what I said: wabbit season. You seem to think it’s duck season now.”

Harry started cracking up.

“I don’t get it,” George said.

“It’s a muggle joke,” Harry told him. “Do you know about cartoons?”

“They’re sort of like comic strips,” Hermione said. She knew the wizarding world had a few of those.

George and Ginny both still looked confused, so Hermione and Harry tried to explain Looney Tunes to them while Ginny and Dobby prepared the duck. Ginny was still the best of them at cooking despite trying to teach the rest of them. Hermione could handle cooking on a stove, but she hadn’t ever raised chickens like the Weasleys did, and she wasn’t much use starting from the whole bird. Neither was Dobby, for that matter.

A couple hours later, though, and the smell of spit-roasted duck permeated the campsite. It smelt good, but Hermione, fighting to focus on her work with with Ravenclaw’s diadem making everything else vie for her attention, barely noticed.

“You want some, Hermione?”

“Hmm?” she looked up from her calculations. George was holding out a plate with slices of duck and mushrooms and tubers on the side to her. “Maybe,” she muttered. She usually just nibbled on block of manna as she worked. It was more convenient that way.

The next thing she knew a hand gripped her own, stopping her pen. She tried to brush it away, irritated, but then, she felt another hand on her shoulder. It quickly moved up to her head and touched the diadem. She looked up. It was a signal she and George had worked out if he was going to take the diadem away from her so she wouldn’t be startled by it. It had other pitfalls though. She testily grabbed his hand to stop him.

“Come on, Hermione. It’s time for a break,” he said.

“I’m working,” she snapped.

“You’ve been working all day. You need to rest.”

George pulled the diadem off her head. She hissed at the jolt when its influence went away and slumped where she sat. It would take her a minute to clear her head again.

“Come on, Hermione,” George repeated. “It’s Valentine’s Day, and we’ve got a romantic dinner of roast duck by firelight.”

Her head snapped up at once. “Valentine’s Day?” She had to think for a moment. “I suppose it is. You’ve been keeping track.”

“Yeah. What’s wrong with that?”

“George, _I_ _’ve_ barely been keeping track.”

“That’s probably not a good sign,” he said.

“I wasn’t really paying much attention either,” Harry admitted.

“Sure, but for _Hermione_ to lose track…” Ginny said as she took her own plate and cuddled up to Harry.

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“She’s right, you know,” George told her. “If you start losing time, you’re getting too lost in your work.”

“Hmm…” Hermione mumbled noncommittally, but she scooted closer to him.

George moved closer too so they were leaning against each other. “Here, you should enjoy your Valentine’s dinner.”

Hermione sighed and took the plate. The duck wasn’t bad. Bland, yes, but despite their limited means, Ginny had prepared it well. Nonetheless, Hermione waved her wand and assembled a bit of salt from the soil to add to it. For living off the land in winter, it was a pleasant dinner. Ginny and Harry seemed to think so, too. She felt bad for Dobby tonight. He hadn’t seen Sonya in months. He did seem to enjoy the dinner, though.

“So you really think this is a nice date, George?” she asked as the dinner was winding down. “We’re barely doing anything different from every other night.”

“Hey, we’re camping in the woods in tents made of bedsheets and on the run from Death Eaters. I’ll take what I can get,” he said. “We could do more, you know. We don’t have to sit on the ground. We could transfigure a sofa to cuddle up for a while.”

“I’d rather just get back to work,” Hermione muttered to herself. Then she realised how that sounded and looked up at George’s dismayed face. “I’m sorry, George. We can still cuddle while I—oh, bloody hell, that’s not any better is it?” She sighed in exasperation. “I’m really sorry. I haven’t been a very good girlfriend, have I?”

“You’ve been busy,” he said.

“I’ve been obsessed.”

“You’ve been trying to do everything, Hermione. You’ve been carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders nearly as much as Harry. And I love that about you. The way you can do feats with magic no one else can. Your absolute dedication to saving a friend against overwhelming odds. I’m just worried about you burning yourself out.”

Hermione didn’t say anything at first, but eventually, she made a decision: “Mind transfiguring that sofa, then?”

He smiled and stood, pulling out his wand. Across the camp, she noticed Ginny and Harry working together to transfigure proper seats of their own. They’d done that a fair amount of that their first couple days out here, but soon enough, they’d stopped bothering. The sofa’s upholstery was rough and leathery—the structural complexity of cloth was the reason it was one of the exceptions to Gamp’s Law—but it was comfy enough. George sat down on it, and she leaned against him. On the soft cushions, she felt weary to the point of falling asleep in moments. Still not a very romantic Valentine’s Day.

“It’s a bit late, George,” she muttered, “I feel burnt out already, but I can’t stop. I keep telling myself once I solve this ritual, then I can rest. Once You-Know-Who is defeated…”

“After the war,” George said.

“After the war,” she agreed.

She must have fallen asleep about then because the next thing she knew was a hissed curse from Harry.

“Wake up,” he whispered. “Everyone wake up.”

“Huh? What is it?”

“Quiet! Listen!”

They did, and when they strained their ears, they heard voices.

“I can smell somethin’ ‘round here. I think someone’s been cookin’ somethin’.”

“Wha’d’you think, Scabior? Wizards?”

“This time of year? Could be. It’s worth checking out.”

Ginny was the first to spring into action, waving her wand and overturning the earth over the glowing coals of the fire. Hermione and George were up at once. The Moon was rising and just past full, so there was enough light to see, but the news wasn’t good. They saw at once that their camp was surrounded. Six wizards waved their wands, making the wards shimmer. They were picking at them, cutting through them little by little.

“We’re outnumbered,” George whispered.

“Shh. They can’t see us yet,” Hermione said.

“Disillusionment Charms,” said Harry.

Everyone agreed. They couldn’t risk these wizards seeing Harry’s face. They just barely got the charms cast when the wards shimmered again, and the attackers started. The tents had been exposed.

“Ha! I knew it,” the one called Scabior said. He was tall and thin and might have been handsome if he didn’t look like he’d been living on the streets longer than they had. He wore a grimy leather coat that set him apart from the others. “Come on out,” he called. “We’ve got you surrounded.”

“We have to do something,” Ginny hissed.

“Wait for it…” Hermione breathed.

“No?” Scabior said. “Smash ‘em!”

The wards were meant for concealment more than a full frontal assault. They would hold up for a fair time against six enemies, but not all night.

“Hermione?” Harry said worriedly.

“Wait for it…” she insisted.

Scabior seemed to understand that, too. “You can’t hide in there forever, you know,” he said as he hacked at the wards. “We’ll cut through soon enough. This is just a simple seven-layer…wait, what the hell is that?”

The wards glowed an angry red as the eighth layer kicked in, and suddenly, all six attackers were knocked off their feet.

“NOW!”

The four of them sent a flurry of curses out through the wards, Hermione letting loose from both wands.

Scabior scrambled to his feet and ran. “Crap! We gotta fall back!” he called. “Somethin’ not right ‘bout those wards. Go back for backup!” The rest of his gang ran after him, vanishing into the forest. They kept casting curses after them until they heard pops of Disapparition in the distance.

 _“Qapla’!”_ exclaimed Hermione.

“Ka-what?” Harry said.

She shrugged. “It’s the only word of Klingon I know how to pronounce.”

“Right. We have to go. They’ll be back with reinforcements fast,” he said.

“I know. Dobby! Take the books to the library. Just drop them anywhere; it doesn’t matter. Pack up, fast.”

Dobby was gone and back in half a minute. Half a minute more, and they had the tents and all of their loose articles rolled up and ready to go, and George unmade the outhouse. Hermione summoned the ward stones that had saved them and dropped them in her satchel. They stood in their empty campsite, ready to go.

They landed on a deserted moor. It was cold, but dry, and flat for a long way around. There was little cover here, but by moonlight, they could find a hidden spot by morning.

Hermione had considered where to go next and thought back to the Brontë sisters. That was a nice, non-magical reference. They did some looking, and found a remote wooded area in the moors around Haworth in Yorkshire, which seemed sufficiently isolated and which George and Ginny assured her was not too close to any Quidditch stadiums. It would do for now.

“How did they even find us?” Harry said. “Could they detect us doing magic even without the Trace?”

George shook his head: “there’s no general magic detection. Otherwise, they could just find anyone who did illegal spells.”

“But there are ways to detect magic,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s easy enough on smaller areas.”

“Well, sure, but they can’t monitor the whole country at once.”

“True…Hmm, George, could they actively monitor a significant area? How long would it take them to search county by county—or district by district?”

George looked out at the moor in thought. “Bill would’ve been the person to ask that,” he said sadly. “Even if it’s possible, I doubt it’d be quick. And they’d have to get lucky and find someone doing magic while they were looking.”

“Do you think that’s how they found us?” Ginny asked.

Hermione thought for a minute. “Probably not,” she conceded. “More likely they fanned out looking around major towns. They think we still need to go to the store, right? But even so…”

“Even so, we shouldn’t stay in one place too long,” Harry decided. “Maybe even go on foot for part of it. We’ll have to keep watch and keep moving.”

“At least we know the wards work,” she said.

“Yeah. C’mon, let’s find some cover.”

* * *

_Day 25_

The following week was uneventful. Hermione made little progress on the ritual. The most notable thing was that Harry decided they should move weekly to throw off any trackers like they’d seen before. (Luckily, Hermione had copied some maps from the library in Bangor.) Before they left, though, she wanted to do a couple tests of other projects that weren’t discrete enough to do the rest of the time.

“This is the main one,” she said as she set a small, off-white lump of material on the ground and stepped well back. “Cover your ears!” she said. She aimed her wand.

_“Azidius!”_

_BOOM!_

“Success!”

George, Harry, and Ginny were reeling from the small explosion. “Bloody hell, Hermione. What _was_ that?” Harry said.

“C-4.”

_“WHAT?!”_

“Well, it’s not exactly C-4,” she admitted. “But it’s a plastic explosive with the same active ingredient. I took some shortcuts on the binder, but the stability should be about the same.”

It had been surprisingly easy to make the stuff, she thought. The actual procedure wasn’t in the book on explosives she’d found in the library, for obvious reasons, but the chemical structure was. She needed the alchemical products of nitric acid and ammonia, but from there, she needed only a small amount of plant matter to assemble the molecule.

Harry shook his head: “Isn’t that stuff dangerous, though?”

“Not really,” Hermione said. “It’s very stable. You can light it on fire, and it won’t explode. I wouldn’t want to breath the fumes, but it won’t explode. You need a special primer—or my spell. I stretched _Extonio_ to the extreme and made a couple of tweaks—”

“You know you’re not exactly helping our image as IRA terrorists, here,” Harry stopped her.

“Worry about that when You-Know-Who’s dead.”

“Yeah,” George agreed. “Besides…” George wiped a fake tear. “Hermione’s making her own explosives. You’re finally joining in Fred’s and my footsteps. I’m so proud.”

She chose not to mention how she’d been playing with thermite for a while.

Harry folded his arms. “Okay…I guess that could be useful, but if you can set it off with a spell, what if the Death Eaters manage to set it off when we don’t want them to?”

“I thought of that too,” she said. “I didn’t want to take that chance.” She set up another block of her makeshift C-4 and tried her Stabilising Spell on it: _“Statheropoi.”_ When she attempting _Azidius_ , nothing happened, just as she’d hoped.

* * *

_Day 28_

“Harry, I need to talk to you,” Hermione said. She sat down on a rock beside the fire to face him. Her face was solemn, and he and Ginny were immediately concerned.

“Okay?” Harry said.

“Is there a problem?” asked Ginny.

“Not a problem as such,” Hermione said. “It’s too early to say.” She stopped and yawned. George approached and sat down beside her. “I’m still working on the horcrux removal ritual. I—I found a possible solution, but it’s risky.”

“I think we’re at the point of trying risky,” Harry said.

Hermione shrugged. She didn’t meet their eyes, mostly because she was tired and trying to focus on her equations. “I don’t know if you’ll like it,” she said. She paused again and tried to collect her scattered thoughts. “So the problem is, the horcrux ritual—it requires a murder.”

“Yeah, we know.”

“Well, I’m trying to find the inverse of a murder. We can’t reverse death. We can’t use remorse. The inverse could be creating a new life, but that’s too unreliable.” She powered on before any of the others could react to that. “So I thought the inverse could be a forswearing of killing.”

“Um…” Harry said.

“That sounds like a _really_ bad idea,” Ginny said.

“What she said,” he agreed.

“No! Not all killing! I—” Hermione took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I’m running on caffeine, here.”

George touched her on the shoulder. “Do you want to stop and rest?” he asked. “You look dead tired.”

“No, George. I need to do this. The ritual. If the horcrux ritual requires a murder, then removing could involve forswearing a particular person’s death. Harry, if you took an Unbreakable Vow not to willingly kill…Lucius Malfoy, say…Well, that might do it.”

Harry’s brow furrowed. “That’s not as bad as I thought, but it still doesn’t sound very safe,” he said.

“Yeah, what if he gets in a fight with Lucius and has to defend himself,” Ginny pointed out.

“I know. That’s why I said it’s risky,” Hermione said.

“What happened to your scapegoat idea?”

Hermione shrugged again. She was stuck there. She felt like she was missing some critical connection to link an animal sacrifice with the manipulation of human souls. It didn’t seem to follow.

“I…I’m not saying no—” Harry said. At that, Ginny stopped him and whispered something to him. They whispered back and forth for a minute before Harry spoke again. “I’m not saying no yet, Hermione,” he repeated. “Do you have any other ideas, though?”

“Not right now. This is the best I’ve been able to come up with. And it’s not complete yet. I just wanted to know what you thought of it so I know whether to keep pursuing it.”

“Oh. Well…I’ll do it if there’s no other choice, but I’d rather you come up with something different if you can. How long—er, how much extra time would you need?”

She shook her head: “I’ve given up trying to estimate these things. I still feel like it’s worth it to try other things, but…well, if I knew what I was doing, it wouldn’t be called research, would it?”

“Okay, I guess just keep me posted, then,” Harry said. “I guess it’s good to have a backup, but yeah, you should probably keep looking.”

* * *

_Day 32_

“Hey, George, come check this out.”

“What is it, Hermione?” George approached her workspace but she held up a hand to keep him from getting too close.

“Careful. This stuff is unstable,” she warned him.

“Unstable?” he said, bemused. “How unstable—”

“Extremely. Probably recklessly so, even by _your_ standards…scratch that. Even by _Fred_ _’s_ standards.”

George took a step back. “Bloody hell, what do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“Since we’re moving today anyway, I wanted to try some of this stuff. I finally collected enough sodium fluoride from the soil to make enough Teflon to store this it. Magically reinforced, of course.”

“And what is this stuff? Is this stuff actually useful?”

“Well, the sodium fluoride won’t do much if we try to put it in the Death Eaters’ precious bodily fluids,” Hermione said with a grin, but George only looked more confused. “Fluorine compounds are some of the nastiest things around. I mean, I’m sure I could invent worse ones given time, but…okay, how about this? If you have a fire, making your fireworks, and it’s, like, a powdered metal fire that’s really hard to put out, what do you do?”

“Bury it, of course,” George said. “Put it out with dirt or sand.”

“Right, but what if you can’t?” she pressed. She held up a small, cloudy-walled phial filled with fluid. “This in here is chlorine trifluoride. I had to store it under an argon atmosphere in a Teflon bottle because if bursts into flame on contact with just about anything. I’ve…I’ve sort of wanted to try it ever since I read about it.”

“And this is the stuff that’s recklessly unstable and impossible to put out?” he asked nervously.

“Uh huh,” Hermione said. “Do you think you could make a sandpile to bury this in, George? It needs to be downwind of the camp, of course. And use a Bubble-Head Charm. Even the fumes from this stuff can etch glass.”

“Damn, what horrible book did you get this out of? Was it in one of Dumbledore’s dark magic books?”

“Nope. No magic. Just muggle chemistry. If you understand how to manipulate the world like muggles do, it can be just as scary. I—I want to try it. I only made a little, but I want to see if it’s as powerful as they say.”

George looked very uncertain, but he indulged her. He managed to make a pile of sand and buried the phial inside, then stepped back and stood next to Hermione upwind. Then, with Bubble-Head Charms in place, Hermione cast a spell that opened the bottle at a distance. The reaction was swift. Tongues of white flame and sparks leapt out of the sand as fire consumed the pile, and clouds of poisonous yellowish smoke billowed out.

George jumped back. “Merlin’s balls, Hermione! That was under _sand?_ How does that happen? Hell, how do you put out a fire like that?”

“That’s the thing, George. I don’t think you _can_ put that out.”

“You mean there’s a muggle version of Fiendfyre?” he gasped.

She paused in thought. “No, nothing like that…” she said. “Although now that you mention it, the comparison is a bit apt…But no, it’s like one of your rockets. Once you light it, it’ll keep going until it burns out.”

“Except this stuff will light on its own under sand, and the fumes can etch glass,” he pointed out. “What is this actually good for?”

“You never know when it might come in handy,” she suggested.

George turned and grasped her by the shoulders. “Hermione, are you feeling okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine,” she said, but he gave her a look. “I’m doing as well as I can under the circumstances. Anyway, I have some stuff I want to try with nitrocellulose before we go—”

 _“Hermione,”_ he said, and she stopped. He gently pulled Ravenclaw’s diadem off her head. “Really, Hermione, are you feeling okay.”

She slumped against him and sighed heavily: “No. I haven’t been sleeping enough. I still get nightmares every other night, and I’ve been tearing my hair out over Harry. But it’s hard, George. At least with chemistry, I know what I’m doing.”

“Even when it’s terrifying, apparently.” He wrapped his arms around her. “How long have you been working on this?”

She shrugged. “A little bit at a time. Quite a while, I guess. I don’t remember exactly.”

“And seriously, do you think you’ll have any use for something that dangerous?”

“The chlorine trifluoride…? Well, maybe not. But I really do want to try the nitrocellulose, though. That’s what’s used in muggle guns, more or less. And I had a couple other ideas—”

“Hermione, please slow down for a minute,” George insisted. “Lord, even without the diadem, you’re getting a little obsessed.”

“No more than I always have,” she said. “I _am_ still making progress on the ritual, George. It’s just…sometimes, it’s not easy to focus on that.”

“You’re overworking yourself.”

“Maybe,” she admitted. She could have said more, but she didn’t feel like it was worth the effort. She kept telling herself, just solve Harry’s problem—if she could focus on it that long—and she would be done. That was all she needed.

* * *

_Day 41_

Hermione lay down on her cot for a rest. It was mid-afternoon, and her weariness was fast catching up with her. It seemed to do that almost every day now. Unless she was engrossed in something and properly on a roll, she couldn’t fight it off. Even engaging in conversation with the others didn’t help if she didn’t have much to contribute. Half trying to focus and half trying to decide whether it was worth taking the time for a nap, she drifted in and out of consciousness.

She was always so frustrated when she nodded off and didn’t wake up again until well into the evening. It felt like she was wasting too much of the day, and none of the others would ever wake her up. She could understand why, but it still annoyed her. It didn’t help that her entire sleep schedule was coming unstuck from the motion of the Sun, either.

She’d tried setting an Alarm Charm to wake her up sometimes, but she always seemed to forget, or she’d turn it off and promptly pass out again. Or once, she’d managed to wake up, but she’d feel dazed and half-asleep for nearly an hour afterwards, sitting in a stupor, unable to think straight, use the diadem, or even carry on a coherent conversation. George had been so worried that he’d almost demanded she see a Healer if they could find one, and he told her not to do that again, even though she insisted it was just sleep inertia.

That evening, though, she was awake enough to work again, not that she was getting anywhere. She felt like she was still missing something big every time she ran into another dead end. Today, after spinning her wheels for a while, she tossed her notes aside to reconsider the problem from the beginning. Not for the first time, although she’d probably get more insight if she tried it a bit more often.

“In the original horcrux ritual, you take a life to get a life,” she repeated her mantra. That was the first principle of the project from the beginning. “Decrease the life in one term of the equation to increase it in another, so that it’s conserved…”

She paused and pondered for a minute. “Directly reversing the ritual is something only the caster can do—taking back the sentiment and the corruption that led to the murder…” Another important factor, though barely connected to the first.

Nothing was coming to her. She could barely hold the thoughts in her mind. With a sigh, she tried again: “In the original horcrux ritual, you take a life to get a life…Take a life to get a life…Life is conserved…”

She sighed again and rubbed her head. She felt like she was close, but she just couldn’t see it. “In the original horcrux ritual…you take a life to get a life. So life is conserved. But we want to take the extra life that’s plaguing Harry. We can’t just _add_ a life to pay the cost…Okay, what about the reversal ritual? In that one, the caster sacrifices their extra life—something of value to them—to get back…no, not a life. They still don’t have more life than when they started. Or do they…”

Hermione stopped and started scribbling figures. She tried to write the equation three times without success before she realised she was thinking about it wrong. “No, they have more _soul_. Not more life. They gain…wholeness? Purity? If you can call it that…Wait, if the factor to be conserved isn’t life, then I’m going about this wrong. We can’t just destroy the fragment in Harry. We can’t _add_ life to pay the cost. But a different element…if we remove the fragment from Harry, we’re…decreasing the corruption in him. Yes. But if the element to be conserved is corruption, we need to increase the corruption someplace else…AHA! The scapegoat idea still works in the abstract, just for a different reason. If the element we want to counter is corruption, to decrease it in one term of the equation, we have to _increase_ it in another, more acceptable place. We have to transfer the fragment to something we don’t mind destroying, and _that_ can be the sacrifice.”

Suddenly, Hermione was wide awake. It was strange how when she finally found an idea that interested her, she was alert again, even when she was half-asleep a minute ago. This could be it, she thought. She started scribbling equations and finally understood what she was doing. “It’s not an inverse ritual; it’s an _opposing_ ritual,” she said to herself, “directly opposite alignment, but a different effect. We don’t need to reverse the horcrux ritual. We need a new ritual that counters the _elements_ of the first that are hurting Harry—literally and metaphorically. If I can find those elements, I _should_ be able to balance the equations. We just have to remove the horcrux from Harry, and put it somewhere else…

“ _Where_ , though? That’s the question. We need something that can withstand an improperly prepared horcrux being attached to it. Quirrel was slowly killed by You-Know-Who possessing him. A lower animal isn’t going to be strong enough. Dumbledore said he possessed lower animals and killed them quickly.” She stopped and chuckled as she understood, and her chuckle slowly built to a manic laugh.

George, Harry, and Ginny came running as they heard her mad cackling.

“Hermione, are you okay?” George said.

Hermione just kept laughing.

“On no, she’s gone mad,” Ginny said in horror.

“Probably the lack of sleep,” Harry said.

“Bloody hell, we’ll have to stun her,” George said.

“No—” Hermione managed to say, waving them off. “I just—” She could barely breath in between her laughter. “I can’t stop—can’t stop laughing.”

“Did you take a potion by accident?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Did you take a potion on purpose?” asked Harry worriedly.

She shook her head again. Her laughter was subsiding, though it was mostly because she was trying to catch her breath. “I figured it out—” she gasped. “All this time—I’ve been trying to—figure out the—cost of the ritual…And all I had to do was—figure out the opposing elements instead—and the cost just dropped out of it!”

Harry’s and Ginny’s eyes grew wide. “You figured out the ritual?” Harry said in disbelief.

Hermione shook her head: “Not all of it, but I know what to look for now. We need an animal that can withstand being possessed. The kind of thing You-Know-Who could have possessed without killing it instantly. It’ll need to be fairly large, but I’m not sure about the other qualifiers.”

“Well, we know You-Know-Who used his snake for one of his horcruxes,” Harry suggested.

Hermione eyes grew even wider: “Of course! A serpent! You-Know-Who’s natural affinity for snakes will dramatically reduce the cost requirements. That’s it! Venomous would be even better. Age, species…gender? Hmm…No, not important. Nagini’s female. Yes! Harry! I need an adder!”

“What?”

“An adult European adder. They’re the only native venomous snake in Britain. It’ll fill the slot in the ritual.”

“And you want _me_ to find one?

“Well, _you_ _’re_ the Parselmouth, aren’t you?”

“In _winter_ , though?”

“It’s nearly spring, Harry. Come on, with this, I can finally finish the ritual.”

“Okay, okay! I’ll find an adder,” he said, then muttered under his breath, “Somehow.”

Ginny just grinned at Hermione. “I knew you could do it, Hermione,” she said.

Hermione frowned a little: “Don’t thank me yet, Ginny. I’ve still got about three other bits of the ritual to fill in, and I have a feeling it isn’t going to be easy.”

* * *

_Day 42_

“Harry, come look at this.”

Harry sat beside Hermione, who was sitting on a rock, reading her Bible. “Okay, what am I looking at?” he asked.

She held out the Bible and pointed to Job Chapter 3:

 

_Let the day perish on which I was born, and the night that said,_ _‘A man is conceived.’_

_Let that day be darkness! May God above not seek it, nor light shine upon it._

_Let gloom and deep darkness claim it. Let clouds dwell upon it; let the blackness of the day terrify it._

_That night—let thick darkness seize it! Let it not rejoice among the days of the year; let it not come into the number of the months._

_Behold, let that night be barren; let no joyful cry enter it._

_Let those curse it who curse the day, who are ready to rouse up Leviathan._

_Let the stars of its dawn be dark; let it hope for light, but have none, nor see the eyelids of the morning,_

_Because it did not shut the doors of my mother_ _’s womb, nor hide trouble from my eyes._

“Um…okay. So?”

“Harry, that’s a _curse,_ ” she said excitedly.

“Yeah, it looks pretty curse-like.”

“No, Harry, I mean that’s the framework of a ritual curse.”

“Wait, you mean _magic_?”

“I think so. Job is one of the oldest parts of the Bible, after all. It’s possible it may have preserved some fragments of real magic in it.”

Harry stared at her in confusion. “But doesn’t the Bible forbid magic?” he said. “The Dursleys always said I was going to Hell for my ‘freakishness’ and stuff.”

Hermione scowled. How awful could Harry’s relatives get? But she pressed on: “If you want to be technical, the Bible only clearly forbids divination and necromancy. Plenty of wizards say that. Besides, you know plenty of them go to church. I’m telling you, this is a ritual—or at least, it’s something I can build a ritual out of.”

He paled a little. “But _this?_ Hermione, you don’t need this for the horcrux ritual, do you?”

“What?” she said, her train of thought derailed. “No, this has nothing to do with that. I just thought, in a pinch, it could be a trump card we could play on You-Know-Who—something to overcome his huge power advantage.”

Harry stared at her, wide-eyed. “The power the Dark Lord knows not?” he said.

She remembered the prophecy. “It could fit,” she admitted. “I’m still not sure yet.”

“Right. Well, I think it might be worth pursuing, then,” he said. “But…I don’t want to push you to hard, you know, but do you think you could focus on one ritual at a time?”

Hermione sighed heavily: “I’ll try.” She put the Bible away and pulled her notes back out for the exorcism ritual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Azidius: based on the chemistry term for unstable chemicals containing an N3- ion, often found in detonators. (From the French “azote” for nitrogen, from the Greek “azoos” denoting the part of air that does not sustain life.)
> 
> Statheropoi: Based on the Greek for “stabilise.”


	72. Chapter 72

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: With the power of JK Rowling, I summon a new chapter.
> 
> A guest reviewer pointed out that Teflon should not be used to store chlorine trifluoride. After doing some further research, I found that Teflon can be used, but it must be free from impurities. Luckily, Hermione’s whole shtick is making things free from impurities at the molecular level.

_Day 44_

Hermione stood unsteadily on her feet outside Shell Cottage. Once, this had been meant to be Bill’s and Fleur’s seaside summer home. Now, it was a refuge for Fleur, Molly, and baby Nadia, almost completely cut off from the outside world. She’d had Dobby bring her by Side-Along Apparition. Even if it was an emergency procedure, he was in a better condition to do it than she was. Right now, she didn’t fully trust herself not to splinch herself even if she knew how to get here.

If took an effort not to stumble as she made her way up to the door. She was not at her best today. She knocked uncertainly, to no response. She knocked again, a little too loud this time, and moments later, she heard a thump on the other side.

“Who’s there?” Molly called.

“It’s Hermione, Molly. The password is Schindler.”

The door opened a crack, and Molly’s face peered out. Then, it opened wide enough to see all of her. “Hermione? What are you doing here?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

“We’re all fine. I’m making progress, in fact, but I need to talk to Fleur.”

“To Fleur?” Molly stopped when she got a good look at her. “Are you alright, Hermione? You look more exhausted than Fleur does.”

It took her a moment to respond. “I haven’t been sleeping well,” she answered.

“Well, come on in, then. Fleur?” she called.

Hermione sat at the kitchen table, and Fleur soon walked into the room, carring Nadia in her arms. She had dark circles around her eyes and looked about as run-down as a part-Veela was probably capable of looking, but she still moved with grace and steadiness. Hermione felt a twinge of jealousy.

“‘Ermione?” Fleur said with a yawn. “What are you doing ‘ere?”

“I needed to talk to you,” Hermione said. “It’s about the ritual I’m working on.”

Fleur narrowed her eyes. “Zee ritual?” She casually handed Nadia off to Molly.

“My secret project. The one I was working on for Harry. It’s a ritual. Didn’t I mention that?”

“No, you did not.”

“Oh…Sorry. Well, anyway, I’ve worked out most of what I needed. I just needed to come to you for one of the ingredients.”

Fleur nodded, and then, lightning fast, she drew her wand, and the next thing Hermione knew, she was bound to her chair and backed against the wall.

“Ah! Fleur?”

“You are not ‘Ermione,” she said. “Did you zink I would fall for zat?”

“No, Fleur, I am!”

“You come ‘ere talking of rituals—”

“No! It’s not—oh no, I don’t need your firstborn, Fleur. I need a glass of milk.”

Fleur paused in confusion. “Excuse me?”

“Ugh, I’m too tired for this. _Breast milk_. One of the ingredients is breast milk. It’s not a sacrifice, either. It’s an offering.”

Fleur tilted her head. “What are you _talking_ about.”

Hermione sighed. She strained against the ropes and would have rubbed her temples if she could. “Molly, could you…” She stopped. Neither of them would want to leave Fleur alone with her. “I don’t want Nadia to hear this.”

“You mean you do not want _Molly_ to ‘ear zis,” Fleur said. “Who are you, really?”

“She knew the password, Fleur,” Molly said softly.

“Zat proves nothing, Molly.”

“This is Shell Cottage,” Hermione grumbled. “It’s under Fidelius. Remus is the Secret Keeper. I came here with Dobby. You know him too. Arithmancy. Er…the geomantic structure defining the global ley line network comprises the mirror planes of the icosahedral symmetry group—” She stopped in mid-sentence. “Now there’s a thought. Fleur, are there any major ley line intersections in the world whose coordinates can be narrowed down precisely?”

Fleur sighed and lowered her wand, though only partway. “Very well. You are definitely zee ‘Ermione I know,” she conceded. “But still, you sound Confunded. Perhaps Imperiused.”

“You know I can resist the Imperius Curse,” Hermione said. “And I sound Confunded because I’m probably getting less sleep than you right now.”

“ _Excuse moi!_ I am caring for an infant, you know.”

“And I’m up at all hours trying to save Harry’s life.”

“What?” Molly gasped.

Hermione winced. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you didn’t know. I don’t think it’ll be a problem, Molly, honest. But this really isn’t something for you to hear. I wouldn’t even be telling Fleur unless I had to.”

“Bill knew, didn’t he?” Fleur asked quietly.

“Yes, he did,” Hermione said. “Harry and I asked him not to tell you. I wasn’t personal. It’s just that we wanted to tell as few people as possible.”

Fleur sat down at the table. She looked unhappy, but the tension drained out of her. “Molly, please take Nadia back upstairs,” she said. “I wish to talk to ‘Ermione in private.”

Molly looked between the pair of them nervously, but she accepted the arrangement. “Alright, then,” she said, and she left the room with the baby.

 _“Merci,”_ Fleur called before turning back to Hermione. “So, rituals?”

“It’s to remove horcruxes,” Hermione said before she caught herself. “I mean, not the way you’re thinking. That’s already sorted. You know about the horcruxes, but what you don’t know is that Harry _is_ a horcrux.”

Fleur gasped and swore colourfully in Serbian. That must have _really_ rattled her. She must have been glad she sent Nadia away now. Hermione just stared down at the table.

“‘Ow did zis ‘appen?” she demanded.

“When You-Know-Who tried to kill Harry the first time, the recoil broke a piece of his soul off, and it latched onto Harry. He’s not a real horcrux, but it will still take a ritual to remove.”

“But you cannot remove an ‘orcrux without destroying zee vessel? Even if ‘e is not a real one…”

“There are ways around that,” Hermione said. “I just need to take a snake and some opposing elements to drive it out of him…I’m sorry, I’m not explaining this well.”

“Mm hmm. You really must be tired,” Fleur said. “I still do not understand what you are doing.”

“Do you know much about ritual-craft, Fleur?”

“Only a little. Cursebreakers need to know zee basics.”

Hermione took a deep breath to try to collect her thoughts. “I need to find alchemically opposing elements to the horcrux ritual to remove the soul piece from Harry. One of those elements involves drinking the blood of a live snake. Now, that’s consuming life—with a dark aspect. And it’s symbolically taking on the alchemical properties of the ouroboros. But now, the snake is the target, so it needs to be displaced in the equations.”

“Wait, zee target?”

“Of the ritual…to move the soul piece to. Anyway, since a serpent is used in a different aspect, I need to include an opposing element to the blood-drinking—sustaining life instead of consuming it, and with a _light_ aspect.” She looked up at Fleur, who was slowly processing her words. “I’ll save you the trouble. It’s the Milk of Human Kindness.”

“Zee Milk of ‘Uman Kindness? I ‘aven’t ‘eard of zis phrase.”

“It’s a Shakespeare reference—although I’m taking it a bit more literally. Human breast milk, freely given. _That_ _’s_ what I need for the ritual. And…do you know the difference between a sacrifice and an offering?”

“Yes, I know zat much. An offering is merely giving some common thing you have. A sacrifice cannot be got back.”

“Right. Well, this is an offering. The snake is the only sacrifice.”

She tilted her head, then shook it, ignoring the last part. “I am not fully ‘uman, zough,” she said.

“Doesn’t matter. You can interbreed with humans; that makes you fully human to muggle science.”

Fleur stared at Hermione in silence for at least two solid minutes. She seemed to be considering her words, turning them over in her mind and analysing them for herself. A range of emotions warred on her face. Finally, her expression turned hard. “Does ‘Arry know what is required?”

Hermione shook her head: “No. I haven’t told him yet.”

“But you will need me zere to… _participate?_ ”

“No,” she said, confused, and then she blushed deeply when she understood what Fleur was saying. “ _No!_ It doesn’t need to be straight from the source. It just needs to be freely given. I’m going to put it in a silver goblet.”

“Ah.” Fleur relaxed, but she still stared at Hermione in silence for another minute. Finally, she sighed and asked, “How much will you need?”

“Just what you would get with a normal feeding—I think that’s about four ounces? I can make a nutritionally balanced infant formula to cover for it if you need it.”

“No, no, if it is only one feeding, I will not need it,” she waved her off. “When do you need it?”

“I’ll let you know. Soon, I hope. I’ve still got one more part of the ritual to figure out.”

“Fine.”

Hermione sat quietly for a minute. Then, with nothing else to stay, she stood to leave. She was nearly out the door when she stopped and turned around. “Thank you, Fleur. I’m sorry to disturb you like this, but…”

“No, I see it is necessary. For ‘Arry, I will do it.”

Hermione nodded awkwardly. Then she called out a thanks to Molly and left the cottage.

* * *

_Day 45_

“Unsupported flight,” she muttered angrily to herself. “Unsupported flight. How is You-Know-Who _doing_ that? I feel like I’m missing something obvious, but I don’t know what.”

She knew needed to concentrate on the ritual. Unfortunately, focus was the one thing Hermione didn’t have to save her life. She was still making a fair amount of progress, but she knew she could easily work twice as fast if she were on her game, which only increased her frustration.

“Come on, pay attention. Have to keep working on the ritual,” she told herself. She set her notes about You-Know-Who’s flying aside, as much as she wanted to dig deeper into them, and went back to the exorcism ritual.

She needed to find the opposing elements to several other parts of the horcrux ritual. The murder was only the most obvious. The full procedure was quite gruesome. She hadn’t even told Harry all of the steps described in _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ , it was so awful.

“Self-mutilation,” she said to herself. “And carving specific runes into one’s skin, but the self-mutilation is the important part…The opposing element should be healing or purification.”

There were a number of directions she could go with that. The trouble was, most of them were either impossible without a trained Healer present—completely clearing the skin of acne and other blemishes, for example, which was nigh-impossible even for a wizard—or far too mundane to be a ritual act.

“Hm…I don’t think anointing with oil is going to work,” she said to herself. “I need to think more abstract. The self-mutilation and carving of runes in blood is an act of steeping oneself in darkness. Runes aren’t usually marked on the skin. That’s unusual. It’s an act of drawing the darkness into yourself. That suggests the opposing element should be anchoring oneself in light…” She paused. “How do you anchor yourself in light?”

She snorted as a particularly disturbed thought came to her. “I really do need a break,” she said. “No, I can’t just light him on fire. Okay, light and _magic_. But there’s nothing special about magic light, is there? Not _powerfully_ special. Or a magical _kind_ of light?

“Oh, _duh_ ,” Hermione said. “The only form of light that’s magically distinctive is the Patronus Charm. We just expose him to the Patronus Charm during the ritual. I don’t even think it’ll matter who casts it. It’ll help push the horcrux away from him, and it should also serve as a guarding force against the ritual going wrong. It’ll work.”

“Good. Now for the next part…”

* * *

_Day 46_

Hermione stood in Diagon Alley, putting up posters with moving pictures of her burning house with the caption _CRIMES OF THE DEATH EATERS._ She was proud of this campaign. After showing the destruction of the Rookery, showing the burning homes and mangled bodies of muggle-born children to the wizards of Britain seemed the perfect way to foment revolution.

The Aurors were in the Alley, but they didn’t see her because she had the Ring of Invisibility. They tried to tear down the posters, and she grinned wider. She had put a new enchantment on these ones. She called it the Hydra Curse. Every time the Aurors tore down one poster, two more would take its place.

Suddenly, a voice shouted, _“REVELIO!”_ And her Ring fell from her hand. A horrible cackled sounded behind her, and she turned around. It was _her._ Bellatrix. And Rookwood. And their master.

“You-Know-Who!” Hermione snarled.

“Yes, Miss Granger,” You-Know-Who said smugly. “I- _Know-_ Who. This little campaign of yours has gone on long enough.” He waved his wand, and all the posters were torn down from the walls at once. But the curse worked just fine, as twice as many posters reappeared in their place.

Hermione laughed. “You’ll have to do better than that!” she called.

“Yes, a clever little charm,” Rookwood said.

You-Know-Who scowled. “Perhaps so, but there is more than one way to skin a kneazle. A little fire should take care of you and your lies.”

Hermione gasped. “No, don’t!” she yelled.

“Master, no!” Rookwood shouted.

“No, my Lord!” Bellatrix cried.

“Silence, all of you!” You-Know-Who said. _“Incendio!”_

Hermione backed up in horror against the wall. There was nowhere to run. She tried to Apparate away, but she couldn’t. The fire began burning the posters. Each poster burned created two more, which only added more fuel to the fire.

 _“You lunatic!_ ” she screamed. _“You’ve killed us all!”_

The posters turned into a fiery hurricane of burning parchment and razor-sharp edges. It swirled around You-Know-Who, growing all the time. A look of fear crossed his face. “What magic is this?” he said. _“Finite! Finite_ , I say!”

Bellatrix and Rookwood vanished. Hermione tried to cast the countercurse, but it was Tabooed.

The swirl of burning parchment grew wider and denser, tearing into You-Know-Who’s flesh. He tried to fight it off, but everything he did made it worse. “No! No! This cannot be!” he screamed. “I am invincible!”

But all his spells failed. You-Know-Who died in a flurry of a million burning papercuts.

Their victory was short-lived. The posters were still burning and multiplying. Hermione screamed as the hurricane of fire grew to engulf her—

She gasped and bolted upright on her cot. She looked around, trying to make sense of her surroundings. The lamp was still burning by her bedside. Her papers were strewn across her chest and the floor. The curtain that separated her from Ginny’s side of the tent was undisturbed. It was daylight, though she wasn’t sure of the time.

“Merlin’s pants, where did _that_ come from?” she breathed. She’d had a lot of nightmares in the past few weeks, but that one was just plain _weird_. She laughed at the absurdity of it when she went over it in her mind.

“As if you could make endlessly replicating posters like that,” she said. Duplicated objects were conjured. They degraded with time and number of duplications…and fire. “The only way to make a stable duplicate like that would be…oh…With runes.”

And that was when she started to panic.

“Oh, no no no no no no.”

She scrambled to pick up her papers and pens, fumbling with her hands.

“Nonononono _no!_ ”

She stumbled out of the tent, getting out of the stuffy air. The others were already up and about, as usual, but she ignored them.

“No! No no no! It can’t be!” She transfigured three upright blackboards from rocks and started writing.

“HERMIONE!”

“GAAH!”

_WHACK!_

“OW!”

“George? Oh, I’m sorry!”

Hermione had accidentally smacked her arm against the side of George’s head.

“Bloody hell, Hermione, what’s wrong?” he said. He sounded almost as scared as she did, seeing her. “You look like someone died— _Did_ someone die?”

She shook her head and shook him off to continue writing.

“Then what is it?”

“It’s bad, that’s what it is,”

“Is it You-Know-Who?” asked Harry.

“Hm? No—or, God, I hope not.”

“Then what happened? I haven’t seen you like this since…” He had to really think back. “Since Sturgis Podmore?” he guessed.

“Hermione, stop and talk to us,” George tried to pull her away again.

She shook him off again. “Not now, George. This is important.”

“Is this about the ritual?” Harry asked. He could see what Hermione was writing: runes, trigonometric equations, and geometric diagrams that didn’t look like any of the projects she was working on.

Hermione stared at Harry as if he’d asked if the sky was green. “What? The ritual?” she said. “No! This is more important.”

 _“What?”_ Ginny said. “What do you mean it’s more important? You said you were close with the ritual.”

“I _am_ close! I can feel it! There’s just one or two blanks left to fill in. But _this_ —George, stop it!” She said as he held onto her. She tried to fight his grip, but he only held her tighter.

“Not until you explain what’s going on, Hermione,” he said. “You look worse than usual, and that’s saying something.”

“Dammit, George, I’m trying to save the world here!”

 _“What?”_ they all said.

“Augh! George. Your and Fred’s Decoy Detonators. How do they work?”

Now it was his turn to look at her like she’d just asked if the sky was green. “The whats, now?”

“How do they duplicate themselves?” she snapped. “I know they do. How do they make make enough of themselves to cover a room?”

“Huh? They just have a strong Duplication Charm on them,” he said. “What are you talking about? Are you feeling alright?” He felt her forehead for a fever, but she slapped his hand away.

“Okay, good.” That was one less worry, although it hadn’t been a great concern. “Now, what if you used runes to set the spell, and each duplicate detonator had the same runes on it?”

George looked thoroughly confused by now, but he indulged her: “The same thing. They’d duplicate until the runes ran out of power.”

“Right, and what if the runes also pulled power from the ley lines?”

“Well, they’d run longer, but they’d still be conjured. They’d wear out pretty quick.”

“Yes, but what if they didn’t conjure duplicates? What if they transfigured nearby objects into copies of themselves? What if it was a simpler design that’s easier to transfigure. It’s only the runes that matter, after all.”

George furrowed his brow. “Is that even possible?”

“You tell me.” In runic terms, conjuring was easier than transfiguration. It took more intelligence to change a potentially unknown input form instead of creating the output from thin air. But it wasn’t a totally crazy proposition.

George’s eyebrows rose as he understood. “Well, they’d…they’d just keep turning everything into copies of themselves without stopping. Why would you do _that?_ ”

“ _I_ _’m_ not going to do it!” she shouted. “I’m worried about some _idiot_ who doesn’t understand runes and exponential growth doing it by mistake! I’m worried about Rookwood thinking of the idea and making a Doomsday Device—or some other dark wizard who’s less afraid for his own life. It doesn’t have to be a Decoy Detonator—although it _would_ have to be animated. Something as simple as a pair of scissors that hops around and cuts bits of things off to turn into more scissors could destroy the world if they multiply out of control!”

“Hermione, that’s completely _mental!_ ” Ginny spoke over her.

“It’s not, Ginny! Muggles have been worried for years about that kind of thing happening if their robots get sophisticated enough. _You_ _’ve_ heard of that, haven’t you, Harry?”

Harry stared at her like a deer in headlamps. “What, you mean like in _The Terminator?_ ” he said.

Hermione sighed: “That’s a really crude example, but _yes_ , Harry. Like in _The Terminator._ ”

Ginny whirled on her boyfriend as horror began to replace the indignation on her face. “Harry, you mean she’s actually serious?”

“Whoa, easy, Gin. I only understood, like, half of what she said. But something that uses runes like that? I dunno. It might be possible.”

“Now, wait a minute,” George said. “Even if you did all that, wouldn’t the runes still degrade with so much copying like any other duplication?”

“They might,” Hermione admitted. “That’s one of the things I need to figure out. Along with how much power they could pull from the ley lines and a bunch of other stuff. It’s just that magic usually has rules to stop things like this from breaking everything—like not being able to transfigure radioactive material. But I can’t see any here! I—”

“Hermione, please _stop_ ,” he said sternly, holding her by the shoulders.

She did.

“Take a deep breath.” He waited until she did. “You need to calm down and think rationally instead of taking off in a blind panic. _Okay?_ ”

Part of Hermione wanted to snap at her boyfriend for treating her like a child. Thankfully, the rational part of her kicked in. Blind panic—not good. She took another deep breath and nodded.

“Good,” he said with a carefree grin. “Now, is Rookwood likely to actually use this mad scheme?”

Harry answered for her before she could speak: “No. If he’s smart enough to figure this out, he’s _way_ too smart to actually use it.”

“And what about everyone else?” he said. “We’ve gone hundreds of years without anyone destroying the world—”

“Decades, more like,” Hermione interrupted. “Maybe as little as twenty years since the principles have filtered into the magical world enough for serious runecrafters to be thinking about it.”

George frowned a little, but he pressed on. “Fine, twenty years without anyone destroying the world—if it’s even possible, which it might not be. How likely is it for someone to do it in the next month? Or even the next year? And remember, those runecrafters aren’t _you_.”

She lowered her gaze and shook her head. “Not very likely,” she muttered.

“Exactly. Look, Hermione, I’m not saying it’s not important—eventually. I’m just saying you have too much on your shoulders as it is, and this isn’t something you need to worry about right now.”

“Yeah, I guess,” she admitted wearily. “I’ll get back to the ritual then.”

“I think maybe you should take a break.”

“No, not now. I really am close. I’m just missing one important piece…”

* * *

_Day 47_

“Come on, come on,” Hermione muttered to herself. “This doesn’t add up. There should be a powerful ritual force that actually severs the soul fragment away from Harry. The numbers add up, but I’ve moved the sacrifice to the receiving side. It’s not in the right place to actually _do_ it. But I don’t see how I add another element important enough to do the cutting.”

It was the one piece she’d missed when she figured out the snake sacrifice part of the exorcism ritual. In the horcrux ritual, the most powerful element, the murder, was what split the soul. But here, the sacrifice was there to absorb the soul fragment. The rest of the ritual would pull Harry’s own soul and the fragment apart as if to opposing poles of a magnet, but the fragment wouldn’t tear away from him by anything so mundane.

To put it more technically, she had the topological transformations that would stretch the souls apart and make them easier to break—that would lower the energy of the fission operator—but she didn’t know how to apply the fission operator itself.

The best thing she’d come up with used sympathetic magic, which wasn’t as impressive as it sounded in the real world. Something to do with the binding or breaking of chains as a symbolic foil to the severing of the soul fragment, but she couldn’t come up with anything significant enough to apply to such a powerful ritual.

There was a rustling at the entrance to the tent, and a voice called out, “Knock knock,” but she was too engrossed in her figures to pay attention.

“Binding or breaking. Which is it,” she whispered to herself.

“Hermione?” the voice called again.

It didn’t help that she was getting lost in plus and minus signs. Too many of those, and even she started to lose track. Was the desired effect a freeing or a cutting off? Was the balancing act a chaining—something she probably couldn’t do in a light ritual? Was it letting go of something valuable, like freeing a House Elf? They didn’t have any bound ones to use if it was.

“Hermione, I’m coming in if you don’t answer. If you’re not decent, you need to say so.”

The voice was finally too much for her to shut out. “Huh? George is that you?”

“ _Yes._ Are you okay in there?”

“Fine,” she said, and then, after half a minute, “Come in.”

George stepped into the tent and saw what must have been a pretty sorry sight. Hermione was sitting on her cot in her pyjamas, hunched over a notebook and scribbling away, surrounded by papers that didn’t leave her room to lie down. She wasn’t even trying to manage her hair at this point, and it had morphed into more of a bird’s nest than Harry’s, and she looked pale and dazed when she looked up at him.

“Merlin, Hermione, you look awful,” George blurted out before he could stop himself.

She looked down at herself. “Yeah, probably,” she said.

He cocked an eyebrow. “What, no snarky comeback? No hexing your boyfriend for saying you look like hell.”

She shrugged indifferently. “I have more important things to worry about.”

“Sure, but that’s no excuse for not taking care of yourself.” He sat across from her on Ginny’s cot. “I’m not joking when I say you look pretty rough right now. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Not really. I might’ve dozed off a bit, but I’ve been working all night.” Sensory overload did wonders for keeping her awake. It was when she took the diadem off that she tended to pass out, which was less and less lately.

“Hermione, That’s the third time this week.”

“Eh, it’s a relative thing. I’m getting by.”

“You don’t look like it. Bloody hell, I’m not sure when the last time you even stepped outside this tent was.”

Hermione opened her mouth.

“Other than to visit the loo,” he cut her off. “I think it was when you had your freak-out yesterday. And before that was two days earlier when you went to see Fleur.”

She looked up. “You’ve been keeping track?” she said in genuine surprise.

“Someone has to. You haven’t been eating with us. Dobby’s getting pretty upset that you won’t touch his cooking.”

She gave that indifferent shrug again. “Manna is easier.”

George sighed. “Are you at least eating enough?”

“Yes, of course…I think…” She trailed off, flexing her diadem-assisted memory to things she wasn’t paying attention to lately. “Okay, I missed lunch yesterday with the whole ‘grey goo’ thing.”

“And?” he demanded.

“And when I went to Shell Cottage.” She’d meant to stay for lunch and offer some Manna in return, but the meeting hadn’t gone as well as she’d hoped, and she’d forgotten.

“Right. And when was the last time you even tasted anything but Manna?”

She just shrugged, not bothering to think back.

“Hermione, will you take that thing off?” George said.

By now, she knew better than to resist until he took the diadem off for her. Bracing herself, she reached up and slid it off her head.

The first moment always felt like she was about to pass out. The diadem bombarded her with every sight, sound, and sensation around her all the time. It was why she spent so much time closed off in the tent while she wore it. With it gone, it was like being plunged into pitch darkness until she adjusted. The loss of the perfect recall it gave her made her feel like she was in a fog, half-asleep. It almost hurt, coming down from that high, but once she adjusted back to normal perceptions, it was like falling into blessed peace and quiet. Sometimes, she really did pass out from weariness as soon as it was gone. Right now, though, she had something else to focus on.

“This isn’t healthy Hermione,” George said.

 _“You think I don’t know this isn’t healthy?!”_ she shouted all at once, surprising herself as much as him. George flinched back in shock. The diadem didn’t suppress her emotions—far from it. But it took such concentration to stay focused while she was wearing it—the way she constantly felt like she was on the edge of a meltdown of curling up and crying in the corner from the sheer force of it—that when she finally let go, she lost it.

“You think I don’t know I’m a complete wreck right now, George?” she shouted. Harry and Ginny could probably hear, but she didn’t care. “You think I don’t know I’m not sleeping enough? Not taking care of myself? You know I’ve overworked myself before. You’ve seen what it’s like. You know I know the signs.”

“Then take a break,” he said. “Take a nap.”

“I _can_ _’t!_ ”

“Of course you can.”

“No, I _can_ _’t!_ I can’t do it! I’ll still be thinking about it. It’ll all still be right here, and I’ll only feel guilty for not working.”

“You shouldn’t feel guilty for taking care of yourself, Hermione.”

“I can’t help it! I just need to finish this ritual. Then I can rest. I’m so _close_ , George. I’ve almost got it figured out…Dammit, I could’ve had it done in half the time if I could just concentrate properly.”

George laughed uncomfortably. “Do you hear yourself? That’s because you’re so tired. You know you work better when you get enough sleep.”

“ _But I can_ _’t help it!_ ” she cried. “I just feel so _awful_ about myself when I spend a whole day and barely even _get_ to the problem that I stay up late trying to make some progress, and then I fall asleep when I don’t want to, and when I wake up, I’m only angrier at myself for sleeping longer than I’d planned.”

“And still not long enough,” he pointed out.

“Not the point,” she groused.

“Um, I think it is. You’re making this harder for yourself. And more important, you’re making yourself miserable. You’re hurting yourself, and I hate to see you like this.”

“You think you need to tell me all this?” Hermione screamed. “I HATE MY LIFE! I _hate_ myself because all I have to do is this damn horcrux problem, and I can’t _focus_ on it long enough to make any progress! I’ve closed myself off so much it’s practically all I have left, and I can barely get anything done with it on a good day. I’ve been beating my head against a wall for day after day, _week_ after _week_ , trying to solve it, and now I’m finally getting somewhere, and I don’t want to lose it. I’m afraid if I stop, I’ll just collapse into uselessness again.”

George took her hands in his. “You’re not useless, Hermione,” he said. “Trust me; the last thing you are is useless. And you’re only making it worse by running yourself into the ground.”

She slapped his hands away. “Yeah, I _know_ I’m running myself into the ground! I _know_ I’m ruining my health! It doesn’t _matter!_ I just want to damn war to be over for I can _rest_ for once! So I can stop and relax and have what little fun I can out here without feeling guilty for not doing more. I _hate_ it! I hate all of it! I hate it so much I want to burn all my notes, but I can’t because I need them. I hate it so much I want to scream until I’m hoarse, but I can’t because I couldn’t stand the way you’d all worry over me if I did—”

“And wouldn’t you _want_ us to worry over you?” George cut in. He looked hurt. He added more softly, “Wouldn’t you want _me_ to worry over you?”

“I don’t…I can’t…” she stammered. “I…It’d just feel so uncomfortable because you’d be pressing me on all the problems I’ve brought on myself, and the attention would just make me feel worse.” The irony of where she was sitting right now was lost on her at this point. “I didn’t say it was rational, but I can’t help that either. Plus, it’d be such a distraction. You’d all be worrying about me when all I’d want to do is get back to work.”

He frowned. “Didn’t you just say you wanted to take a break? Are you okay?”

“What I want—ha!” Hermione gave a strangled laugh. “What I really want…What I really want is to run away to Australia with my parents and spend an entire _year_ not doing anything—just make it one long holiday. And then I want to spend a nice, quiet life writing spellbooks and making jewelry, and never have to worry about this hellhole again.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” George demanded, but he instantly regretted it—not the question, but being so harsh with Hermione when she was having what might be the worst breakdown he’d ever seen her go through.

But she held it together for that one. “Of _course_ with you there with me, George,” she said. “That should go without saying. But the problem is, I can’t do all those things because I have to keep going here because I’m the only person who can save Harry’s life and _end_ this stupid thing. And I feel like I’m killing myself doing it! I’ve lost all sense of what time it is; I’ve lost all sense of what day it is. I’m running on caffeine non-stop. I can’t remember the last time I so much as slept with the lights off, let alone a full night! I’m doing good just to eat three blocks of manna and change my clothes once in a while! I’m spending practically twenty-four-seven sitting in a tiny tent trying to work on this, and it’s never, ever fast enough _because people are DYING every day out there—and I_ _’m scared I’m not smart enough to do it!_ ”

She stopped, staring at George with tears running down her cheeks. Utter silence filled the tent. Even from outside, there was nothing. If Harry and Ginny were nearby, they weren’t moving. She could imagine their horror-struck faces staring at the tent. She wasn’t even fully aware of when George pull her into his arms, but she wrapped her arms as tight as she could around him, sobbing into his shirt. He didn’t say anything, but just listened as he rubbed her back.

“I’m scared…” she whimpered. “I’m scared I can’t do it. I’m scared I’m going to come up just short, and Harry’s going to die…They way I’ve been lately, I’m scared I don’t even have what it takes to get by in normal life sometimes…There are days I can’t understand how I ever got through my classes with the workload they had when I can’t get anything done now…I’m scared I’m not cut out for the life I’ve dreamed of since I was eleven.”

George held Hermione and rubbed her back for a while, until she began to relax, and her sobs nearly stopped. “Hermione Granger,” he said, “You are the furthest thing from not being cut out for real life. I am certain that once you’re rested an in your right mind again, you’ll have no trouble doing anything you want to do. And even if you can’t, I’ll still love you because even with what you’ve done so far, what you can do now, you’re already the most amazing girl I’ve ever met. You’re brilliant, fun, and too giving for your own good right now. And you don’t ever need to worry about not getting by. With the jewelry thing, you’ll at least be able to support yourself—not that I couldn’t take care of you either with the shop.”

Hermione sniffed and shook her head against him. “I’m a terrible girlfriend,” she muttered.

“You are not,” George insisted. “You’re going through a hard time, and you need someone to take care of you. I’m sure there’ll be times when I need you to take care of me, too, but right now, just worry about yourself.”

She looked up at him and blushed.

He took it in stride. “So, here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to stop working for the day—”

“What?” she gasped.

“You heard me.”

“But I—”

“No buts.” He flicked his wand, and all of her papers lifted up and organised themselves into a neat pile out of her reach. “You’re done for today. No books. No quills, or pens or whatever you use.”

“I need those—”

“No, you don’t. I say no pens. At all. If you absolutely _have_ to write something down, you’ll dictate it to me.”

“George, that’s ridiculous.”

“Don’t tempt me, Hermione,” he teased. “I can be a lot more ridiculous than that. Tonight, you’re going to have a nice dinner with us— _of real food_. I don’t care if it’s just rabbit stew. It’ll probably taste like filet mignon the way you’ve been eating. Then, you’re going to take a long, hot bath—”

“We don’t have a bathtub!”

“We’ll transfigure one for you,” he grinned. “You won’t have to do a thing.”

Hermione turned beet-red, mortified at the though of him involving Harry and Ginny in this.

“You’re going to take a long, hot bath,” he repeated, “and you’re going to go to bed early, with no Alarm Charm. I’m not letting you start up again until you take care of yourself properly. And you can’t feel guilty about it, because I’m making you do it.”

Still blushing deeply, Hermione protested one more time: “But I really am almost done.”

“Nice try. I’ve been listening to you. You’ve been stuck for two days. I bet it’ll hit you right away after a good night’s sleep, and you’ll wish you’d tried it days ago.”

* * *

_Day 48_

George was just annoyingly good sometimes.

Hermione could tell she wouldn’t be able to argue with George. In fact, part of her loved him all the more for taking care of her like this, but that part was mostly buried under layers of frustration and embarrassment. It didn’t help that he was totally right. The rabbit stew didn’t taste like filet mignon, but it did taste uncommonly good. It tasted like the most savoury thing she’d eaten in a long time…because it literally was. It was awkward, though. Harry didn’t seem to know what to say to her, and Ginny looked rather uncomfortable. But it was still good to eat with her friends.

The bath, to her surprise, worked perfectly. She was able to relax enough to stop thinking about horcruxes for a while, and she felt cleaner than she had in a long time, even though she’d been using Cleaning Charms on herself regularly. And with the lights off, she fell asleep on her cot almost the moment her head hit the pillow, and it was glorious.

By the time she woke up, it was already late morning, and she’d slept for fourteen hours. It wasn’t quite as bad as that time during the Triwizard Tournament, but it was close, and it was a lot longer in coming.

George was there to greet her when she came out of the tent, feeling calmer and more rested than she could remember feeling in a long time—certainly since before Malfoy Manor.

“Morning, Hermione,” he said with a carefree grin. “Feeling better?”

“Yes, much better,” she said. “You were right, George. I needed a break.”

“Good.” He held her by the shoulders and gazed longingly into her eyes. “I love you, you know that?”

“Yes, I love you too,” she said.

George smiled wider and leaned in to kiss her.

She held up a finger between them and stopped him. He raised his eyebrows in confusion.

“Of course, True Love’s Kiss,” she said.

“Come again?”

“That’s the missing element—what I need to finish the ritual: True Love’s Kiss. Where are my notes?”

George ran into his and Harry’s tent and grabbed a stack of papers. “Here, but…what are you talking about?”

Hermione frantically flipped through the pages that were now totally out of her organisation until she found what she was looking for. “Look here,” she said. “One of the elements of the horcrux ritual is the Kiss of Death—invoking the life-stealing power of the dementor and kissing the victim’s still-warm lips. I should have seen this before: the opposing element to the Kiss of Death is True Love’s Kiss. The counter to death isn’t giving life; it’s showing love. Oh, I’m such an idiot. Isn’t that the answer to break a curse in a hundred muggle fairy stories? I mean, more in the modern tellings, but still.”

George stared at her. He looked torn between _I told you so_ , and _What the hell?_ Finally he settled on, “So snogging is part of the ritual?”

“It’s obvious when you look for it,” she rambled on. “Dumbledore said one of the deepest mysteries of magic is how perfectly mundane and sometimes small acts can have powerful magical consequences. Like Harry’s mum giving her life for him. Or saving a life—or even sparing a life. And what’s the most powerful form of magic?”

“Love, Dumbledore would say.”

“And so would the Unspeakables. It’s not just sentimentality. True Love’s Kiss is incredibly powerful in ritual terms. It completes the equation perfectly.”

“So you solved it?” he said.

Hermione couldn’t speak for a moment. She almost said “I solved it,” but what came out was, “I need to talk to Ginny.”

She ran before George could respond and soon found Ginny looking for early berries near the camp. “Ginny!” she called, and the younger girl stopped and looked at her.

“Hermione? What—?”

“Ginny, I’m going to ask you a question. Don’t think; just answer yes or no…Do you love Harry?”

“Yes.”

Ginny blurted the word seemingly before she realised what the question was from how her eyes widened when she said it. But she stood by it. “Yes, I do. Um…why?”

“True Love’s Kiss?”

“Huh?”

“That’s the missing element of the ritual.”

Ginny’s eyes grew wide: “You solved it?”

Tears welled in Hermione’s eyes. “I solved it.”

Ginny stared for a moment, her mouth hanging slightly open. “Wait, I only have to kiss him?” she said.

“You have to kiss him in a runic circle in the middle of a complex and rather dangerous ritual. _And_ it has to be true love. If it’s not true love…” She trailed off, not wanting to think about what all the consequences could be. “Well, the best case scenario is it won’t work. Anyway, True Love’s Kiss, a lot of complicated arithmancy, love is the most powerful form of magic. QED.”

George finally caught up with them. “Merlin’s beard,” he said. “I’m happy for you, Hermione, but do you have to run off like a cat after a pixie every time you have a life-altering revelation?”

She sighed: “Sorry, George. I just get so excited. And this was so simple—I just needed to think outside the box a little…you know, Ravenclaw’s Diadem’s an incredible tool, but it gives you tunnel vision.”

George rolled his eyes. “And the fact that you got your first proper night’s sleep in weeks had nothing to do with it,” he teased.

“I love you,” Hermione told him, and she kissed him—properly this time.

* * *

_Day 49_

_And the Lord said to Moses,_ _“Make a fiery serpent and set it on a pole, and everyone who is bitten, when he sees it, shall live.”_ Fitting.

The adder hissed as Hermione lifted it up, bound around a tree branch. It was a compelling image, and it wasn’t limited to the Bible; it was also the Rod of Asclepius—another symbol for healing in a completely different culture. So she took it and ran with it, incorporating it into the ritual for that extra boost.

“Does you all know your parts?” she asked.

Harry, Ginny, and George all nodded. Harry looked the most nervous of them.

“Okay. Once I start it, we have to see it through,” she warned them. Still holding up the adder, she stepped into the outer circle and uttered, _“Ligate Scripta!”_

The generic incarnation to begin a ritual activated the three circles of runes that they had laid out together. Curtains of light shimmered into existence along them—light that carried a dangerous charge and promised doom to anyone who crossed it.

Staying still, Hermione spoke: “With the Serpent Lifted Up, we draw out the corruption as poison is drawn from a wound.” The adder hissed and writhed against its bindings, and a red cord of light lanced out from it and connected with Harry’s chest. As she’d warned him, he didn’t move or speak. With that, she drove the stake into the ground. When she was sure it wouldn’t fall, she moved carefully, between the outer two circles, to take her place.

Hermione, Ginny, George, and the adder were standing at the corners of a polygon with fourteen sides and fourteen feet in diameter, with Harry at the centre. She’d strongly considered using an octagon instead and forming a peace sign, but she’d decided on the traditional form. Ginny and the adder were directly opposite each other, while Hermione and George were slightly to Ginny’s side, not quite at right angles, so that George wouldn’t be directly behind Harry when she cast the final spell.

Once she was in place, Hermione motioned to George, who drew his wand and cast, _“Expecto Patronum!”_

Despite his identity as the Raccoon on the Wireless, that wasn’t George’s Patronus form. It wasn’t a fox either. By a happy accident, Fred’s Patronus _was_ a fox, but George’s was a golden jackal. The jackal burst forth from his wand and frolicked around him, not seeing any dark spirits to attack, but then he said, “With the power of a Spirit Guardian, we divide light from darkness.”

The Patronus flew up to hover above Harry’s head, and a white cord connected down to him. At that point, a dark cloud formed around his head—sharpest at his scar but not exactly emerging from it. It was pushed back toward the snake. Harry groaned in pain, but as long as he didn’t speak any proper words (and probably even if he did at this point), he would be okay.

Hermione motioned to Ginny, and she stepped into the inner circle, a silver goblet in her hands. “With the Milk of Human Kindness, we divide life from death,” she said. She handed the goblet to Harry, and he drank it. A pale aura formed around him, and the black mass was pushed farther behind him. He shouted louder from the pain. He dropped the goblet, but its purpose was served.

Ginny took him by both hands and leaned forward, speaking a second time: “With True Love’s Kiss, we divide love from hate.” She kissed Harry on the lips, tenderly, then pulled back. Still holding him by the hands, she held him at arm’s length. A golden cord connected their hearts.

A scarlet aura flecked with gold appeared around Harry and was pulled forward along that golden cord. His soul was being separated from the horcrux. An ugly cord of black and green connected them, stretched taught by the powerful magic coursing through the circle as the horcrux tried to keep its hold.

That was Hermione’s cue. She took aim at that dark cord with her red oak wand and chanted the final spell three times:

_“S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon!_

_“S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon!_

_“S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon!”_

A disembodied scream sounded throughout the clearing, like the unholy shriek of a demon. Fire of mingled gold, white, and red tore into the black cord, trying to sever the horcrux from Harry. But the horcrux began to fight back. A darker blood-red bloomed within it, and it surged forward, back toward Harry, pushing through the fire and forcing it back. Hermione felt the backlash like fire racing up her wand arm and screamed in pain. Ginny and George must have felt it too from how they screamed as well. But she pressed on.

_“S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon!”_

The fire surged back, pushing the horcrux away again, but not for long. It came back for another attack.

“What’s happening?” Ginny yelled. This far into the ritual, it didn’t matter if they spoke.

“It’s fighting back!” Hermione said. “Ginny, kiss him again! We need to force it away.”

Ginny pulled Harry close and kissed him hard, and Hermione chanted again:

_“S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon!”_

_“S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon!”_ George said, followed by a repeat of _“Expecto Patronum,”_ trying to find a way to strengthen his own part.

The fire ate into the cord connecting the horcrux to Harry. The serpent pulled at it. It nearly snapped, but then, the horcrux seemed to burn with a dark fire, and barrelled forward, slamming into Harry nearly hard enough to knock him over. Ginny was pushed back, nearly losing her grip on him. Harry’s eyes flared red, and then—

_BANG!_

The blast knock Hermione, Ginny, and George clean off their feet and burnt out the runes. The curtains of light flared and vanished, and the three of them landed on their backs.

Hermione groaned and pushed herself up on her elbows. She saw Ginny and George struggling to get up and Harry down on his knees still in the middle of the circle. He was groaning with his fists pressed against his head.

“What happened?” Ginny said. “Was the kiss not enough?”

“No…It was took strong,” she said. “The horcrux was too strong. I thought it wouldn’t have enough will to fight back. It was only a fragment and weakened by Lily’s protection, but…”

Harry started screaming. “No…No, NO! STOP! GET OUT OF MY HEAD!”

He looked up at them, and they saw his face twist between terror and hatred—as his eyes flickered between emerald green and blood red.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S’ekballoume pneuma akatharon: Greek for “We cast you out, unclean spirit!”


	73. Chapter 73

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I’m not saying it was JK Rowling…but it was JK Rowling.

George acted first: _“Expelliarmus! Incarcerous!”_ Harry’s wand flew to George’s hand, and he was bound in ropes where he knelt.

Harry snarled and spat at George like a rabid dog, but then he jerked back like he’d been struck. “Stop it! Go away!” he said through clenched teeth. He fell over on his side, struggling against the ropes.

“Harry!” Ginny ran forward to help him. Harry’s eyes flashed red, and he snapped at her, but the next moment he knocked his own head against the ground. “No! Stop!”

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Ginny said. She held his head so he couldn’t reach her with his teeth. “Is it _him?_ Did he find out.”

“No,” he groaned. “The one…in me. I think—AH! I think we woke it up.”

“Woke it up?” George said.

“Like with the locket,” Hermione said hollowly. “When I killed it, it woke up and tried to stop me.”

“So the horcrux is trying to possess Harry?” he said.

“I think that’s obvious,” Ginny said. “Harry, fight it!” He struggled against her embrace. “Fight it! I know you can do it. You can resist the Imperius Curse. Use your Occlumency.”

 _“ARGH!_ Go away!” Harry growled.

Ginny didn’t budge, whether or not it was addressed to her. Indeed, she held him tighter, pushed his mouth away with one hand, and kissed him on the forehead. “Fight him, Harry. Fight him for me,” she pleaded.

Harry’s eyes resolved to their normal green and stayed there. He slumped against Ginny, trembling and sweating. His teeth were still clenched with the strain, but he slowly began to relax. Ginny reached around and began to loosen his bindings.

“No, don’t!” Harry said. “I can hold it off now, but…I don’t think I can do it in my sleep. It’s not like keeping _him_ out with Occlumency. It’s already inside.”

“Then what do we do?” she said.

“I don’t know…” he whispered. “Hope it falls asleep again.”

“Hope your mother’s protection suppresses it, you mean?” Hermione pointed out. “I assume that’s why it never gave you trouble before.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

“What about the real You-Know-Who?” Ginny asked. “Can he sense it now it’s awake?”

He thought for a minute. “He didn’t notice when we woke the locket up, I don’t think. He would’ve looked for us a lot harder if he knew. He wouldn’t be wasting his time running the Ministry.”

“Okay, that’s one good thing,” she said, forcing a smile.

“We’ll have to watch him,” George pointed out. “If he can’t fight it off at night, we’ll have to keep an eye on him. Make sure the horcrux doesn’t try anything…Or Hermione, can you knock him out with a spell?”

“I…I don’t know,” she said. “I could put him in an induced coma, but I don’t know how that interact with the possession. If his body is physically incapable of waking up, it might shut down the horcrux too, or it might let it walk him like a puppet.”

“Can you do the ritual again?” Ginny said. “Change it? Make it stronger so it’ll work next time?”

“It’s not that simple! If it’s not working now, I don’t know if we can make the horcrux release its hold. I’ll try, but it’s an even harder problem.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Hermione, if you can’t—”

“She will!” Ginny said.

Harry shook his head and nudged her away. “She’s not God, Ginny. If she can’t do it…you might not have a choice. I have to sleep sometime, and I don’t know if I’ll be able to get control back if it fully takes over…You might have to kill me.”

“NO!”

Silence rang in the clearing. Ginny, Hermione, and George had all said it at once.

“You might not have a choice,” he repeated.

“But you’re the Chosen One, Harry,” Ginny said. “The prophecy—”

“The prophecy doesn’t matter! It’s true because You-Know-Who believes it’s true. If I die, the prophecy’s over, and you kill him the same way we were planning: get the last two horcruxes, and take him down.”

“I won’t let you do this!” Ginny said.

Harry smiled sadly and shook his head. “I know you won’t, Ginny.” He looked up and locked eyes with Hermione.

She knew what he was telling her. She didn’t react, even to nod, but she could tell he knew she knew. Harry understood the same thing that Ron had at Malfoy Manor—that of all of them, Hermione was the one who had what it took to do what was necessary. She was the one with the ruthlessness to kill her best friend in order to set him free. That she would put Ginny in a coma to stop her interfering if she had to. That she would walk away from Britain if the Weasleys wouldn’t forgive her.

She wished she had as much confidence in herself as he did—at the same time she prayed that it would never, ever come to that.

“I’ll do whatever I can,” she said. “But you’re right, Harry. Whatever we do, we’ll have to do it fast.”

She went back to her tent and retrieved Ravenclaw’s Diadem. She took a deep breath and set it on her head, and she immersed herself back into the mathematical maze that was ritual magic.

* * *

_Day 51_

Hermione finally found herself back where she’d been a few nights ago: closed off in her tent with her papers strewn around her with no room to lie down, only stepping outside when she absolutely had to. Two nights with very little sleep, part of them spent watching Harry, were weighing heavily on her, and she felt no closer to saving him.

Harry may have got even less sleep than she had, if it were possible. He had spent most of the past two days sitting upright, bound in as comfortable position as they could manage, never without sunlight or firelight, and more in a half-awake daze than fully conscious or unconscious. It had got him through two nights without being fully possessed. There were some incidents, but he fought off the horcrux each time. But that wouldn’t hold out for long. If the last few weeks had taught Hermione anything, it was that he was going to crash and crash hard—and sooner rather than later.

As she sat in the tent, Hermione contemplated her red oak wand. The final inch and a half of it had turned black like char after the ritual. It didn’t appear to be damaged, but the change was worrying. She first noticed it whilst destroying the other horcruxes, but it was worse now. She’d have to ask Ollivander what was up if she ever saw him again.

“Hello?” Ginny called, but she didn’t wait to come in like George did. Hermione didn’t mind. It wasn’t like she was likely to see anything at the moment. She sat on the opposite cot. “Hermione, could I talk to you?” she asked.

Hermione looked up, and Ginny tapped her head. Hermione closed her eyes and took off the diadem.

Ginny smiled weakly. “So, any progress?” she asked.

Hermione shook her head. “Only the obvious. If we replaced the snake with a human sacrifice, I’m sure it would work. But even if it were a willing sacrifice, I don’t see how we could make it into a truly light ritual.”

“Yeah, that’s what I figured, too,” Ginny said. “How are you doing?”

She motioned to the mess around her. “Just about how it looks.”

Ginny took a deep breath and seemed to work up her nerve. “You know, Harry and I heard you and George talking the other day.”

Hermione nodded slowly. “I assumed as much.”

“I didn’t know it was so hard for you. I’ve seen you on bad days, but I had no idea it was _that_ bad.”

“It’s not like I advertise it,” she said. “I’d rather just be left alone. That’s why George had to come in and make me stop and take care of myself.”

“Still, I’m really sorry about pushing you so hard all this time. If I’d known I was hurting you so much, I would’ve backed off.”

 _No you wouldn_ _’t._ But that didn’t matter. “It’s not your fault, Ginny,” Hermione told her. “I told you before, you couldn’t push me as hard as I was pushing myself. I hardly think you could’ve been as annoyed with my distractions as I was, or as frustrated by my lack of progress.” That much, at least, was true.

“I dunno, I was a real bitch to you sometimes because I’m terrified I’m going to lose Harry—that I’m going to lose the man I love. I think I have at least as much right to be worked up about it than you do. I’m just sorry I took it out on you like I did.”

Hermione shook her head. “I did my best to hide the worst of it, Gin,” she told her. “I—look, I don’t want this to become a contest of…I don’t even know what we’re competing over here. The point is, I have my own demons to fight, and you don’t bear any blame for that. And frankly, you dealt with yours a lot better than I’ve done. But you’re not the one who had me working myself to death, sleeping three hours a night…heh, like all of us are doing now. When I was up at three in the morning, fighting with my figures until I was literally tearing my hair out and frothing at the mouth—all that was on me, not you.”

Ginny winced: “Crap, how did I not notice that? I was sleeping right next to you.”

“Because I didn’t want you to notice.”

“I—” Ginny opened her mouth again, but no sound came out. She closed it and stared at her for a minute before speaking this time. “Okay, no competing over how miserable we are. That doesn’t help either of us. You’re don’t look like you’re doing so now, though.”

She waved her off: “Not important. Harry needs all of us more right now. One way or another, it’s going to be resolved quickly.”

Ginny shuddered. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said. “Just…you try to keep it together, too.”

“Same to you, Ginny,” she said. When her neither of them said anything more, Hermione picked up the diadem and put it back on her head. She knew better than to expect her little talk with George to solve all of her problems. Even when she was sleeping properly and working normal hours again, she was sure she would be struggling with them. But for the moment, she stopped worrying about it and dove in headfirst because she really was on a tight time limit to save Harry’s life. It was quite the motivator.

* * *

Hours later, she felt like she’d got nowhere. She pored over her exorcism ritual again and again. _Was_ there a way to remove a soul fragment that didn’t want to go? Would it work if she added elements to counter more parts of the horcrux ritual? Maybe. She really didn’t know, and she didn’t have time to figure it out. She needed a quick fix—something, _anything_ to modify the ritual she had now to correct the problem.

A human sacrifice would do it, but that was crossing the line into dark territory, even if it was a willing one.

A stronger act of love might work, but that was getting uncomfortably physical, and to really dot the i’s and cross the t’s to make it unambiguously light at that point was farther than she (and more importantly Harry and Ginny) was prepared to go.

Bringing in an actual priest might possibly help, but again, crucifixes and holy water against a human soul, however maimed, were an uncertain thing.

A blood connection between Harry and the snake? That could ease the path to get the horcrux to move to it, but blood was treacherous to work with ritualistically, and it was edging into dark territory.

She sighed to herself. “A lot of possibilities,” she muttered. “None of them certain enough to try, and there’s no time to go further afield. I just don’t see how I can make this ritual work unless I had a willing subject—”

Hermione gasped. It couldn’t be, could it? “Would that even work?” she said. “Can you just take a soul out and put it back in? That seems wrong…” Her eyes grew even wider. “But if I’m right about dementors, you can! Can’t use an actual dementor, but…power of love? Having a body to go back to…? That could work. That could really work.” Her eyes darted around. Her hands were shaking as she picked up her notes and started drawing, rearranging the diagrams.

“ _Two_ rituals, not one. The first one I should be able to do just by flipping a couple signs. It’s the same principle. Oh, but will _Magrisha Kedavra_ work…? Yes, yes, it’s not naturally bound. I don’t need to work out if it works on natural life.

“It’s the second one that’ll be tricky. It’s not about light and dark there. That’ll be from light to light. Okay, Milk of Human Kindness I can repurpose. Patronus…Patronus as guide instead of guardian? Patronus means ‘protector’, though. What about binding? What if connect…no, that’s back to the previous problem. But…but Harry’s been bound for his own protection for two days—will be three days. Loosing that binding could have a place.

“Oh, duh,” she corrected herself. “Patronus as protector of the soul, keeping it from being removed by a dark force. That works. And True Love’s Kiss…becomes Breath of Life, obviously. I’ll have to rearrange the runes and the geometry, but…this could work.”

* * *

She took her idea to Harry (still tied to a chair), Ginny, and George. Hermione sat across from them and tried her best to keep her explanation coherent in her sleep-deprived state. “Okay, I found a solution,” she said. “You’re going to think I’m crazy, but it’ll work…It’ll work better than anything else I’ve come up with, anyway.”

“Alright, we’re listening,” Harry said.

“You-Know-Who’s soul fragment is holding on to Harry too tight to dislodge,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s his willpower, or residual effects from the original horcrux ritual, or something else, but it won’t come out. So…we turn the ritual around. With some minor changes, it’ll work…with a willing subject. We pull _Harry_ _’s_ soul out of his body…and put it into Ginny.”

Hermione braced herself for the inevitable explosion, but Ginny was just staring at her like a deer in headlamps, and George was opening and closing his mouth, more confused than anything else.

“NO!” Harry shouted so loudly that she checked his eyes for red flickering. “No way! I’m not putting Ginny at that kind of risk! You know what possession did to Quirrell.”

“I’m not finished yet, Harry,” she said. “And yes, I know what it did to Quirrell—over _months_. I’m talking minutes. We move your soul into Ginny. That leaves only You-Know-Who’s fragment in your body. Your body will just be a horcrux, then—less than a horcrux, even. I can remove the fragment the same way as the others. Then, we do the ritual again to put your soul back in your body, and you’ll be clean.”

Harry stared at her silently. Then, he started laughing, but it wasn’t him laughing. His eyes flickered red, and he hissed, _“Foolish mudblood! You’ll only kill them both. You are toying with forces about which you know nothing.”_

Hermione wasn’t sure what made her do it. “Shut up, Tom,” she snapped. “I’m smarter than you, and you know it.”

Harry flinched, and then he was back.

“ _Gaah!_ Sorry about that,” he said breathlessly. “It’s getting worse.”

“Then we’ll have to do it tomorrow,” Hermione said. “I’ll have to go see Fleur again. We’ll need two feedings of breast milk to pull it off this time.”

“Now, hold on,” George protested. “Don’t we all have to agree to this. I’m not letting you put my baby sister in that kind of danger, either.”

“Oh, like you can stop me,” Ginny said.

“It _will_ be risky, Ginny,” Hermione cut in. “He’s right about that. And it’ll be your life your sanity that’s at risk as much as Harry’s.”

“I don’t care,” Ginny said defiantly. “This is the only way to save Harry, isn’t it? The only way to stop You-Know-Who?”

“There are lots of ways to stop You-Know-Who,” Hermione said.

“The only way that leaves Harry alive, then!”

She nodded and answered calmly: “It is the most likely way, yes.”

“Ginny, _no_ ,” Harry said. “I’m not letting you do this.”

“ _You_ _’re_ tied to a chair, Harry. You can’t stop me either.”

“I’m not going to lose you like this!”

“And you think I don’t feel the same way?” she screamed. “ _You_ _’re_ the one who’s being possessed. You’re the one who’s going to die if Hermione’s plan doesn’t work. I’ve been possessed before, remember? I know what it’s like. You saved my life then when we barely knew each other—you, Hermione, Ron, and Professor Vector. Nearly got yourself killed too, as I recall. Now, it’s you, and it’s my turn to return the favour, no matter how dangerous it is. I love you, Harry Potter, and I’m not going to lose you without giving everything I can to save you.”

Harry stared at her, then lowered his head. “Dammit, I cant stop you, can I,” he grumbled.

“Nope. What about you, George? Are you gonna try and stop me?

“Ginny, we still need a fourth person to complete the ritual,” Hermione cautioned, but she also turned to her boyfriend. “George, I won’t pretend this isn’t dangerous,” she said. “But trust me when I say that I wouldn’t be suggesting this if I had any better options.”

George sighed and looked between the three of them. “I do trust you, Hermione,” he said. “And I admit I probably wouldn’t do this if I thought I could convince Ginny otherwise, but of course I’ll help with the ritual.”

Ginny nodded firmly. “We’re all agreed, then.”

Hermione looked at each of them in turn. “So be it,” she said. “I’ll have to get ready then. I need to make some infant formula to give to Fleur and work out the rest of the geometry…”

* * *

Hermione slid the jar of chemically-assembled infant formula across the table to Fleur. Fleur had reluctantly send Molly and Nadia out of the room again and had even more reluctantly consented to cast an Imperturbable Charm on the door so they couldn’t be overheard, but once Hermione explained her plan, she was glad she did.

“So let me understand completely,” Fleur said. “You mean to remove ‘Arry’s soul from ‘is body and put it into Ginny for safekeeping?”

“Yes.”

“But ‘ow can you do zis? His soul should just pass on if you remove it.”

“The horcrux ritual lets you cast off bits of soul with out losing them.”

“Yes, with extremely dark magic!”

“With extremely _powerful_ magic,” Hermione said. “Dumbledore said love is the most powerful form of magic, and considering it nearly worked the first time, I’m inclined to agrees.”

“Of course, sacrificial love is one zing, but zis?”

“Ginny’s putting her life on the line too for this. And it’s the complete package that really does it: the runes, the Patronus Charm, the fact that Harry will have a body to go back to, _and_ the bonds of love.”

“Zee _bonds_ of love?” Fleur said in confusion, but then her eyebrows shot up. “Do you mean—but ‘Arry and Ginny cannot be married. Zey are too young!”

“You can get married at sixteen in Scotland,” Hermione said flatly. “But that’s my Plan C. I haven’t told them that bit yet. If you know fairy stories, you’ll know that true love works fine before the wedding. It worked in the first ritual.”

“You said zat ritual failed!” Fleur exclaimed.

“That ritual did exactly what it was supposed to. The soul fragment was just stronger than I anticipated. It’ll work.”

Fleur huffed and crossed her arms, staring at her for a minute. “And you can expel zee ‘orcrux from ‘Arry’s body?” she said.

“That’s the easy part.”

“And put ‘is soul back when you are finished?”

“That’s the hardest, part, naturally, but I’m confident in what I’ve got.”

Fleur sighed. “Very well. If you are all agreed, I will not stop you.” She picked up the jar of powdered formula Hermione had brought. “Zis formula is safe, yes?”

“There’s certainly nothing harmful in it,” Hermione said. “I controlled everything that went into it. And it’s formulated specifically for infant nutrition. Just add water and bottle-feed as normal. Even if it’s not as good as off the shelf, it’ll be fine to use for a day.”

“Fine. Zen I will ‘elp you again. You may come back for zee milk in zee morning.”

“Thank you, Fleur.” Hermione stood up to go.

“And ‘Ermione,” Fleur stopped her.

“Yes.”

“Good luck.”

“Thanks. We’ll need it.”

* * *

_Day 52_

“So on a scale of one to whatever it was you did to Umbridge, how horrifying is this going to be?” George said.

Hermione looked over the rune setup one last time. “I’d say somewhere between Inferius and what Filch and Mrs. Norris get up to in their spare time,” she replied.

“Oh, Merlin’s balls!” Ginny cried. “I did _not_ need to hear that.”

“Me neither,” George said. He pointed at her dramatically: “I’ve corrupted you!”

Hermione chuckled darkly: “But seriously, I’m expected gruesome threats of torture and death with a healthy side of blasphemous oaths if we let the fragment go on long enough, which I’m hoping not to.”

“That goes double for me,” Harry said. Instead of standing, Harry was tied to a chair in the centre of one of the circles. There were two circles now since the two rituals required different runes, and they wouldn’t have time to set them up. They overlapping so that the edge of one fell on the centre of the other, and Ginny and Harry were at the two centres.

The first circle was similar to the original exorcism layout. The adder tied around a tree branch was still there, though it was as an anchor rather than a receptacle. Hermione and George were moved to different places slightly behind Harry to direct their spells in the opposite direction, and the runes were a bit changed.

Once they were all in place, Hermione began the same as before: _“Ligate Scripta!”_ The runes of both circles came to life. “With the Serpent Lifted Up, we bind the corruption, that it will not spread.” She drove the stake into the ground, and the adder hissed as the red cord formed again. She took her spot on the circle and motioned to George.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ he cast, and the silvery jackal appeared. “With the power of a Spirit Guardian, we divide light from darkness. With the power of a Spirit Guardian, we protect the passage of the light.” Two white cords connected the jackal to Harry from above. Patronuses could be multiplied, so it was possible for it to do double duty. The black mist formed around him and pulled backwards, but already, Harry’s own scarlet and gold aura pushed forward, toward Ginny. He was still well in control, with was a good sign.

Ginny stepped forward with the first silver goblet. “With the Milk of Human Kindness, we divide life from death.” She tipped it into Harry’s mouth since his hands were still tied. He drank it, and his aura pushed farther still. The black and green cord linking him to the soul fragment began to show.

Ginny leaned forward, placing her head fully within Harry’s aura. “With True Love’s Kiss, we divide love from hate.” She kissed him on the lips, then pulled back, holding him by the hands. The golden cord formed between them.

Now, it was just up to Hermione. She aimed her wand and chanted:

_“S’eleutheronoume apo tis alysides sou!_

_“S’eleutheronoume apo tis alysides sou!_

_“S’eleutheronoume apo tis alysides sou!”_

There was an intense pressure in the air as the energy built to a peak, and then, all at once, it snapped. There was a blinding flash and a scream, and when the dust cleared, the runes had deactivated themselves, and Ginny was knocked flat on her back in the centre of her circle.

“Ginny!” Hermione and George cried at the same time. They ran to her, and with coaxing, she opened her eyes.

_“AHHHHHHHH!”_

“Ginny! What’s wrong?” said George.

“My head! My head’s gonna crack open!”

“It’s a side effect of the ritual,” Hermione said quickly. “You’ll be okay long enough to finish it. Ginny, did it work? Is Harry in there?”

Ginny’s bright brown eyes flickered to a glowing emerald green, and her voice took on a different tone. “I’m here,” her voice said in a different tone. “I’m here, Hermione. It worked.”

“Oh, thank God,” she sighed.

“It hurts.”

“It hurts!” Ginny’s normal voice came back.

“It’s like my worst headaches from You-Know-Who,” Harry said.

“You’re trying to fit two souls in a body designed for one,” Hermione said. “You should be fine as long as you don’t lose consciousness.”

Suddenly, there was an evil, high-pitched laugh coming from behind her. Hermione and George spun to see Harry’s body struggling against his bonds in the chair. His eyes glowed bright red, and he laughed mockingly at them.

“You have failed, mudblood,” the horcrux hissed with no natural life in it. “They cannot live like this. They will both die.”

Hermione stood and pointed her red oak wand between Harry’s eyes. “You’ll die first,” she said.

“ _You_ will die, mudblood,” Harry’s body snarled. “My true self will learn of what you’ve done and kill you slowly, in every way he knows you fear—for he always knows. I have seen your heart, Hermione Granger, and—”

“That didn’t work last time,” she spoke over him. She summoned up all of her rage and hatred toward You-Know-Who, trying to block out Harry’s face and focus only on those wicked red eyes, and cast, _“Magrisha Kedavra!”_

The dark green spell struck true, and Harry’s body let out an unearthly scream—a long, ragged thing that must have left his voice hoarse. His eyes went dark, and a black ooze and blood sprayed out of his scar. The ooze turned to mist and rose into the air, and with a final shriek that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, it evaporated away. Harry’s body slumped in the chair.

Hermione staggered, winded from the effort, but she had to check one thing. _“Atma Prakata.”_

Nothing. He was lifeless. An impossibity: a living body with no soul. Finally, it was gone.

She nearly dropped to her knees, but she knew she had to press on. “Hurry!” she gasped. “We have to finish it before his body stops breathing. George, help me with the chair.”

Together, the two of them levitated the chair into the centre of Ginny’s circle, so that she stood right in front of Harry’s limp body. Hermione and George took their places. For this one, she’d used a pentagram, specifically in its aspect as the symbol of Venus. They stood about five degrees farther back than the last one, at the corners. _“Ligate Scripta!”_ she said, and the runes lit up.

She pointed at George, and he cast his Patronus again, speaking faster: _“Expecto Patronum._ With the power of a Spirit Guardian, we protect the passage of the light and bind it to the Earth.”

Ginny struggled even harder to stand than Hermione did. For a moment, Hermione was terrified she was going to spill the milk, which would have killed both of them—maybe all four of them if it reacted with the runes—but she held it high and said, “With the Milk of Human Kindness, we add life to life,” and she drank it herself.

This time, Hermione went next: “With the breaking of bindings, we set the captive free.” Then, she used a nonverbal spell that cut the ropes away from Harry’s body. Ginny straddled him at once to keep him from falling out of the chair.

Ginny was shaking. Short of breath, she still spoke true: “With the Breath of Life. We return life and love to its home.” Then took a deep breath, kissed Harry on the lips and breathed air into his lungs. A golden aura surrounded the pair. The cord must be there, though it was harder to see.

Hermione spoke the next line: _“Anasta elthe, oti idou o cheimon parelthen!”_

She waited this time, though, for Ginny to give Harry another breath.

_“Anasta elthe, oti idou o cheimon parelthen!”_

She waited again and spoke one more time: _“Anasta elthe, oti idou o cheimon parelthen!”_

There was another flash and a loud crash, Hermione screamed as something sharp and scratchy hit her in the face, and she heard a pair of grunts as two bodies hit the ground. When the light faded and the runes also deactivated, she saw that the chair had exploded into splinters. Harry was lying flat on his back with Ginny on top of him. And then he opened his eyes and gasped loudly for breath.

Hermione smiled and cried tears of joy as she finally let herself sink to her knees. “Breathe the free air once again,” she whispered.

* * *

Harry opened his eyes and gasped for breath. The pain was finally gone. Being thrown out of his body was the second most painful thing he’d ever experienced. The most painful thing would always be the Cruciatus Curse, but there was something more to this: the overwhelming sense of horror looming over him was taken away from his natural place. It was even worse when he saw his body through Ginny’s eyes spouting threats and insults against them, and Hermione expelling the horcrux from it.

Being in Ginny’s body was too alien for him to process. It wasn’t like taking Polyjuice. It was like being jammed inside a puppet that was too small for him on top of being in an unfamiliar body. It wasn’t too small because Ginny’s body was smaller than his; it was because she was already using it. He felt a pain in his head— _her_ head—that was like the worst of his encounters with You-Know-Who, but this time, it radiated out to all of her body. Even though she had invited him in, it was like every part of her was rejecting him just because two souls were not meant to occupy the same space like that.

And then it was over, and he heard Hermione speak. He was back in his own body. He felt weak and nearly ready to faint since he hadn’t been breathing properly for a few minutes, but he was home. And, Hermione said, horcrux-free.

Ginny was lying on top of him, breathing hard. “Harry?” she breathed.

“Yeah. I’m here,” he said.

“It worked?”

He smiled. “It worked. It’s gone.”

Ginny pushed herself up, brushing her cheek against his, and Harry felt his face grow hot. He became aware of how close they were with her lying on top of him. They hadn’t been this close since…a few stolen moments at Prewett Manor before they went to the factory, he thought. There certainly wasn’t enough privacy here in the wilderness.

“You lovebirds okay, there?” George said.

They both turned to look at him, blushing harder. George was helping Hermione to her feet.

“Yeah, we’re good,” Harry said. They should probably get up, though. He turned back to Ginny and his breath caught.

“Harry, what—?” she started, and when they locked eyes, that was went a jolt of pain shot through his head, and Ginny screamed.

“Harry!”

“Ginny!”

“What’s wrong?”

Ginny winced and dropped her head to his, and the flash of pain vanished as quickly as it appeared. Hermione was there beside him, and she turned Ginny over to look at him. “Harry, what happened?” she said. “Where did it hurt.”

“Ginny,” he said. “Look.” He reached across to trace his finger across Ginny’s forehead, and Hermione and George gasped. There, just above her right eye, was a thin, red scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Ginny reached up and traced the same spot with her fingers, and her eyes grew to the size of saucers. “What?” she gasped. “Is that…?”

“Yeah,” George said. “But…how? Hermione, you said the horcrux was gone. Did you…I dunno, split it by accident?”

“I couldn’t have,” she protested. “I checked Harry’s body, and it was _gone_.”

“Send a piece of it along with Harry, then?”

“A tiny piece of what was already a fragment? I doubt it, but…I can check.” She drew her wand and waved it over Harry and Ginny: _“Atma Prakata.”_ When she saw the results, she turned pale and let out a tiny “Oh!” of surprise.

“What is it?” Harry said. He turned to looked at Ginny, but she had the same idea. When their eyes met, he felt that same stab of pain and squeezed his eyes shut. When he chanced opening them again, he did his best to avoid Ginny’s eyes and look at her scar instead, terrified he’d see the same black mass he’d seen in the mirror, but he didn’t.

Ginny’s aura was the colour of an open flame—a swirl of yellow and orange, shot through just a bit with a dark green. But on her forehead, in the same place he had once seen a jagged, black shard in his own head, there was indeed a spectral scar reaching into her hairline and nearly down to her eye. But it wasn’t black; it was scarlet and gold.

“Oh, no,” Hermione said. “Oh, no no no no _no!_ How—? That’s impossible! No no no! This is wrong!”

“Hermione!” Harry and Ginny said in unison, but Harry asked the question. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I…I don’t know how, but…the ritual. It…it didn’t cut cleanly.”

“Huh?”

“You’ve each had a piece of your souls left behind in each other,” she cried. “You’re horcruxed to each other!” She dropped her wand on the ground. “I…I need to go.” She turned and ran off into the woods.

“Hermione!” Harry called after her, but she was already gone.

* * *

Hermione raced through the trees, blindly trying to escape the horror that seemed to be dogging her steps. She stumbled along, half-tripping over roots, until she finally collapsed against a large trunk and screamed and clawed at her head, trying to make the images go away. Harry with a shard of Ginny’s yellow-orange aura embedded in his scar where the horcrux had been. Ginny with a shard of Harry’s red and gold aura embedded in herself. The feeling of deep wrongness that surrounded them. There was a reason soul magic was so dark. It felt wrong just to look at them like that.

It wasn’t long before she felt a hand grab her roughly by the shoulder. She slapped it away hard and reached for her other wand. It had grabbed her again by the time she did and pulled her up to see George’s face.

“Hermione! Stop. You don’t just drop your wand and run off,” he scolded. “Even if you’ve got a second one.”

He held out her red oak wand to her. It was half-black, now. She didn’t take it.

She shook her head and fought back tears. “I can’t do this, George,” she said. “Every time I try to help, it goes all wrong.”

“It does not,” he said.

“It _does!_ Moody died. Oliver and Mr. Clarke died. Bill and Muriel died. The first ritual nearly killed Harry. And now _this._ ”

“The ritual worked.”

“It _didn_ _’t!_ ”

George frowned. “It got rid of the horcrux, didn’t it?”

“Yes, but at what cost?”

“Isn’t this worth it?”

Hermione said nothing, but her mood only grew darker. She felt a twisting sensation in the pit of her stomach. A hollow feeling in her chest.

“Come on, Harry and Ginny need you.”

She shook her head: “I’ll only make it worse.”

“You will not. And besides, you’re still the only person who knows what the hell is going on.”

That didn’t make her feel any better. Just more guilt to carry. Still, she took her wand back and allowed him to lead her back to the clearing.

Harry and Ginny were both sitting up when they returned, not looking at each other. They were both rubbing their heads, right over their scars, and their headaches looked like they were getting worse until Ginny whined and reached out behind her with her hand. “Harry!” she said. She flailed a bit until Harry caught her hand and pulled them closer together. Then they both relaxed and looked up at her.

Hermione didn’t meet their gazes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“Hermione, I—we want to understand,” Ginny pleaded. “Why does it hurt like that?”

Hermione shook her head. “I barely understand what happened. The same reason Harry hurt around You-Know-Who if I had to take a guess.”

“But You-Know-Who’s evil,” Harry protested. “Ginny’s not. How could she be hurting me—I mean—” He glanced at Ginny and trailed off.

“Something to do with souls, I imagine,” Hermione said.

“Will it go away?” said Ginny.

“It got better with You-Know-Who,” Harry said. “It can’t be worse than that.”

“Dammit, this is all my fault!” Hermione snapped. “I should’ve never tried that first ritual. I should’ve found a better way.”

“You couldn’t have known it would go like that, Hermione,” said Harry.

“I should’ve figured out _something_ would go wrong. It always does…I’ve got to fix this.” She went back to her tent and started gathering up her notes.

“Hermione!” George called after her.

“I’ve got fix this…But I don’t know if I can as much as I’ve bollocksed it up.”

“Hermione!” George grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her back again. “You have to stop running off like that. You need to calm down and have a rational discussion.”

“What is there to discuss? I _horcruxed_ my best friends!”

“Isn’t it worth it though?” Ginny said. Hermione started to protest, but she pressed on: “We finally saved Harry. We got You-Know-Who out of him. You’ve finished the job Dumbledore gave you. You’ve done it, and now we can finish him.”

“But I—I _mutilated_ you!” she cried. Didn’t they understand how monstrous tearing the soul was? Couldn’t they feel the visceral wrongness in their auras? “Don’t you see. The soul isn’t meant to be divided like that! It’s a crime against nature itself! What I did is as bad as You-Know-Who making the horcruxes in the first place— _worse_ because I did it to someone else without their consent. I’ve become _him!_ ”

“Hermione, that’s rubbish!” She was surprised that it was not Ginny, but Harry who stood up and said it, and she finally looked him in the eyes. “You’re nothing like You-Know-Who. You didn’t murder anybody. You didn’t carve runes into our flesh or desecrate a corpse or whatever the other horrible things are that you won’t tell me. And you sure as hell didn’t plan to do this. At worst, this was an accident.”

“An accident with unspeakable consequences,” she said.

“It’s not the same thing,” he insisted.

“Isn’t it? Didn’t you feel the dark magic when I used the spell.”

Harry stared at her, perplexed. “I saw it _and_ felt it,” he said, “but it wasn’t dark magic. And it was _nothing_ like a horcrux.”

“But—”

“He’s right,” George agreed. “There was something…er, uncomfortable about it, but it wasn’t evil like the other one.”

“But—” she tried again, but she knew he was right. The aura of You-Know-Who’s horcrux had felt gangrenous. That was the word she’d put to the revolting sensation it evoked. Harry’s and Ginny’s souls weren’t like that. Their fragments were broken, even traumatised, but in a strange way…healthy. Sleep deprivation, how steeped she was in dark magic, and the sheer the sheer impossibility of the fact had blown it completely out of proportion in her mind. There _was_ a sense of wrongness, there, but when she thought about it, it wasn’t disgust. It was…

Indecency.

Not the sexual sense. Not even in the moral sense. But in the sense that it was something so intimate that it ought to stay hidden behind closed doors, even with close friends. It was like walking in on your parents to find that your dad had tied your mum to the bed and blindfolded her—or at least she assumed that was what it felt like. Hermione had been lucky enough to dodge that particular bullet, but she still flushed magneta when she identified the feeling.

“That’s…that’s…” she stammered.

“Still kinda weird, but not evil,” George offered.

“ _How_ , though? A ‘light’ horcrux? Powered by…”

“Love?” Harry said. He chuckled and reached out to Ginny, helping her up. “What is it you’ve saying for days, now? Love is the most powerful magic there is. I was sceptical when Dumbledore said it, but seeing what just a kiss can do today…I believe it. Maybe the ritual didn’t go wrong at all. Maybe this happened because love is the one thing it couldn’t cut apart.”

Hermione tilted her head and stared at her friend. “Are you sure you’re still Harry?” she said. “That was too cheesy to be Harry.”

Harry laughed, louder this time. So did Ginny and George. But he answered her: “Maybe. But I know I love Ginny. And if getting You-Know-Who out of my head means being connected to her, I’m okay with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> S’eleutheronoume apo tis alysides sou: Greek for “We release you from your chains.”
> 
> Anasta elthe, oti idou o cheimon parelthen: Ancient Greek for “Rise up and come away, for see, the winter is past,” based on Song of Solomon 2:10-11 as rendered in the Septuagint.
> 
> Also note that while Hermione hasn’t been keeping track, this ritual took plan on the first day of spring.


	74. Seventh Year, Spring

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: My Legilimency tells me that JK Rowling owns Harry Potter.
> 
> I was worried last chapter was going to be my most controversial decision ever, but I was surprised to find the reaction was very positive. I’m glad it was because the truth is, that was the original idea that inspired me to write the Arithmancer series more than four years ago. The Arithmancer was originally going to be a fairly short late canon story with the previous chapter as the centrepiece. But I decided I needed more background for Arithmancer!Hermione to make it work, and I wound up working back all the way to first year, and the story became so much more. Thanks for all your support.
> 
> Just so we’re clear, Harry and Ginny are horcruxed to each other, with all the baggage that carries from canon except that it’s light magic instead of dark.
> 
> Also, thanks to Gofanon for helping me get the Hebrew right in this chapter.

_Day 53_

After the trials of the past three days, all four of them were dead on their feet, probably Harry most of all. So despite the fact that he and Ginny couldn’t look each other in the eye, yet also couldn’t be physically separated for more than a few minutes without getting splitting headaches, they all went to bed at once. Harry and Ginny wound up pushing two cots together in one of the tents so they could hold hands while they slept, and after some consideration, Hermione and George slept separately in the other. It wasn’t like they had any privacy to begin with in tents made from bedsheets and tarpaulins.

The next morning, though, an amazing change came over Hermione. She finally felt the terrible weight lift off her shoulders that she had laboured under for nearly two years. Harry was saved. She’d done the impossible. Things were stable—or as stable as they could be at a time like this. Spring had begun, she though with a start, and the Sun was bright.

Nonetheless, Harry and Ginny did need help. They looked tired and worn when they woke, and they went through their morning routine almost in a daze. They were perhaps a bit more comfortable than last night, but it wasn’t much of an improvement.

“So…I don’t know if I can help you,” Hermione told them. “I have no idea what you’re feeling…”

Harry and Ginny started to look at each other, but quickly looked away. “Er…when we look each other in the eyes, we both get stabbing headaches,” Harry said. “But if we’re not touching each other, we get headaches then, too, but they build up over a few minutes.”

“So you have to be touching each other, but not looking at each other?” George said, tilting his head.

Harry and Ginny both nodded. “Do you know what’s causing it?” Ginny asked.

“Well, we know that you each have a piece of your souls embedded in each other,” Hermione said. “The pain’s in your scars?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s not exactly the same as a horcrux, but it wouldn’t surprise me if it had similar symptoms, even thought it’s— _we think_ —light magic instead of dark.”

“It’s worse than it was with You-Know-Who, though,” Harry said.

Hermione frowned. “How so? In fact, what were your symptoms before, exactly?” She took out her notepad to write them down for comparison.

“When I met him before, I got a stabbing headache when I looked him in the eyes, but it went away pretty quick,” Harry explained. “And it didn’t seem to hurt him.”

“And you’ve tried it long enough with Ginny to test it?”

“Er, sort of. It’s hard to do it when we both get the headaches, but it should’ve gone away even if we weren’t looking at each other the whole time.”

Hermione made some notes. “What else?” she asked.

“When he came back, it hurt when he touched my scar. But that was the only time—well, that was the only time he touched me, I guess. I started getting headaches all the time in first year when Quirrell was around. And in fifth year until I learnt Occlumency. And I got visions. You know about those. I could see everything from his point of view. My scar hurt then, too.”

She finished writing those. “Was there anything else?” she asked.

Harry thought for a minute and shook his head.

“Have you been getting visions now?” she continued. “Seeing things through each other’s eyes?”

“I don’t think so. Just the headaches.”

“Hmm…Harry, did Dumbledore ever tell you anything about your symptoms?”

“Only that I got visions when You-Know-Who was feeling very strong emotions—usually anger. And he was trying to send visions to me when I was learning Occlumency.”

“What about the headaches?”

Harry got a far-off look for a minute, and his face fell. “No…Dumbledore never said anything about the headaches—Well, sort of. He said You-Know-Who’s anger was hurting me through my scar, but he never explained why it hurt to look him in the eye…And I guess I never thought to ask, either.”

Hermione hadn’t felt Dumbledore’s absence so acutely in a long time. She doubted the old wizard would’ve known the answer, but he had a century’s worth of experience to create a good theory or point in the right direction of research. Even though she might well have invented more soul magic than had been known in all of history, she felt like she was chasing at shadows.

“Have you tried your Occlumency, then?” she said. “If it helped with You-Know-Who…”

“Sort of,” Harry said. “It doesn’t seem to help much when we’re separated. And the pain kind of cuts through it when we look at each other.”

It was odd, she thought. In some ways, it was the opposite of the horcrux. They felt pain from being separated, not from touching. But the eyes…

“The eyes are the windows to the soul,” she said. “I have a thought. I’ll need to use the Soul-Detection Charm on you to test it, though.”

“Okay,” Ginny said, but they must have noticed the discomfort on her face because she asked, “What’s wrong?”

Hermione shook her head: “It’s just that your souls read different now. Something…deeper. I…I feel like I’m asking you to strip naked, to be honest.”

Harry and Ginny both blushed deeply. George gave Hermione a queer look, but when he looked at them, remembering what he saw yesterday, she could tell he understood, even if the analogy wasn’t exact.

“I’ll be alright, won’t it?” Ginny said. “I mean, it’s for Healing, right?”

“If you ignore the fact that I’m not the least bit certified as a Healer,” she pointed out. “Or that your condition never existed before yesterday.”

That didn’t deter them. Ginny squeezed Harry’s hand, and they both agreed to try it.

“Alright,” Hermione sighed and waved her wand: _“Atma Prakata.”_

Their auras appeared around them again with the soul fragments embedded in their scars, plain to see. Hermione felt that deep discomfort from last night again—like she’d caught them in a compromising position. Something where even if there was nothing technically wrong about it, but it felt inappropriate to intrude. George looked away, but she didn’t have that luxury. Looking straight on, she said, “Try moving apart.”

They let go of each other’s hands and scooted apart. The effect on them was subtle, and it took a minute for her to see. The spectral scars that held their soul fragments shimmered and distorted, each bending toward the other.

“Good,” she said. “Now, I need you to look each other in the eye for as long as you can.”

Harry and Ginny turned to each other and immediately grunted with pain. Their faces screwed up, and they struggled to keep their eyes open. But their auras were the most interesting. Their spectral scars flared with energy and motes almost like sparks swirled around them as around a flame, reaching out to each other.

“Right. Try touching your foreheads together,” Hermione said.

They did, and they gasped and sighed with relief.

“Better?”

“Yeah,” said Harry. “Pain’s not completely gone, but a lot better.”

Hermione released the spell. “I thought so.” They looked away from each other and held hands again whilst staring at her intently. “George, you can turn around,” she said. “I _think_ I know what your problem is. You’ve both been wounded in the soul—a wound deeper than most people ever experience. Worse, you both had a piece of your own soul torn away, and _that_ _’s_ something…that maybe no good person has ever felt before. Maybe it was love; maybe it was the ritual itself; maybe it was the pain of two wounded souls clinging to each other for comfort, but you both lost a piece of yourselves, and simply put, your souls want to be whole again.”

She paused and considered her words. “This is just a guess, mind, but I think that when you’re touching, your souls can feel the lost fragments in each other and feel connected to them again. I mean—I’m talking about them like they’re a separate thing, but they’re _you_. Subconsciously, you can feel the wounds you bear, and you’re reaching out to soothe them. When you’re apart, the connection is weaker, and it grows painful. When you look each other in the eyes—Well, it’s like I said: the eyes are the windows to the soul. The connection is so strong that the fragments try to return, but they can’t, and you’re left with pain in your scars.”

Harry’s eyebrows had crept higher and higher through her explanation, while Ginny was staring at her in wonder. “What do we do about it, then?” Harry said.

“Unfortunately, I can’t fix it without another ritual that doesn’t exist yet, and I can’t make any guarantees it would work. Based on you’re symptoms with You-Know-Who, Harry, my guess is that you mostly need time to heal—maybe with mental therapy as well—not like counselling; I mean like physical therapy. Practice staying separated longer, little by little, and when you can bear to be apart for long enough, practice looking each other in the eyes longer. Not too much at once so it’s not a shock to your system. And then, if you feel up to it, you can try the opposite of Harry’s Occlumency: work on _opening_ the mental connection.”

Harry stopped short. “Open it?” he said.

“Mental connection?” asked Ginny.

“Harry, you had a mental connection to You-Know-Who because of the horcrux. It’s how he sent you visions. If your…light horcruxes or whatever have the same properties, there should be a mental connection between you two. With enough practice, you should be able to see through each other’s eyes the same way. If it works the same, you should be able to feel each other’s emotions, communicate mentally regardless of distance, and most important, I’m hoping that having the mental connection open will soothe your souls and make it easier for you without the physical contact. That’s my best guess for how you can recover enough to be as functional as Harry was before.”

She finished and folded her hands on her lap. Everyone was staring at her now. It was George who spoke first, though: “Bloody hell, That was some Dumbledore-worthy stuff there, Hermione.”

Hermione blushed. She hadn’t been going for that or anything. And it wasn’t exactly a comparison she admired.

“It really was,” Ginny said. “Are you sure it’ll work?”

Suddenly, Hermione burst out laughing, and the spell was broken. “No, I’m bloody well not sure!” she cried. “I’m trying to invent the entire field of Soul Healing from scratch here! My advice could be as useless as a lobotomy. But we can at least make educated guesses from your symptoms and Harry’s history. Obviously, if something doesn’t help or makes it worse, stop.” She sighed and turned away, gazing off into the trees. After a minute, she turned back to them and added, “I’m sorry. That’s all I have for you. Maybe a Legilimens could help more, but I’m already far out of my depth.”

“Hermione, I can’t thank you enough,” Ginny said suddenly.

“ _We_ can’t thank you enough,” Harry agreed. “The past two years, I…I wasn’t holding out a lot of hope that I’d survive this war. So thank you. You’ve already done more than enough.”

“Yeah, and if you’re right, I think we can get by,” Ginny said.

Hermione nodded. She stood and patted George on the arm to come with her. They walked a short distance away to give them some privacy.

“Will they be okay?” George said worriedly.

“I think so,” Hermione said, leaning against him for support. “They’ll need time to heal, though.”

“How long?”

“I really couldn’t say. My only guess would be as long as it took Harry to learn Occlumency.”

He met her gaze, eyebrows raised. “Didn’t that take months?”

“About five months, although they have a good deal more free time now.”

He turned and looked back at the other couple. “Yeah. That they do.”

“It could be a week; it could be never,” she told him. “We’ll just have to wait and see.”

George just frowned and shook his head sadly.

“How’s your mum going to take it when she finds out?”

He grimaced: “Ugh, been trying not to think about that. She didn’t even know about the horcruxes.”

“She won’t miss Ginny having a scar identical to Harry’s.”

“Yeah. I don’t think she’ll disown you or anything, but it might get ugly.”

Hermione nodded. She wasn’t looking forward to that, but it wouldn’t come up until the war was over anyway.

“So what are you going to do now?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well, what do you _want_ to do?”

“Hm?” She looked up at him.

George smiled at her. “You finished the job, remember? You’re free now. You can stop and rest. Work on what _you_ want to work on for a change. Spend some time with your boyfriend.”

Hermione thought for a minute and grinned.

* * *

_Day 55_

“Okay, I took some shortcuts here to make the cartridges,” Hermione said. “I only used nitrocellulose and a soft paraffin. According to the book on explosives, most smokeless powders also contain nitroglycerin, but that’s a pain to handle.”

“Says the girl who made the horrible substance that burns through sand like sawdust,” George pointed out.

“True,” Hermione conceded, “but chlorine trifluoride isn’t meant to be handled up close. Smokeless powder is.”

“And this stuff will make our rockets more powerful?” he asked.

“Definitely. Maybe even too powerful for commercial use. It’s four times as powerful as the black powder you use now.”

George whistled low as he studied the equipment they had made. They were working together again, just like old times, except now with a bit of a more combat bent. Hence the bullets. But it tied back to one of George’s favourite things: fireworks. The only downside was that they still didn’t have Fred there to join in.

“I just want you to know,” Harry spoke up, “if you make nitroglycerin, I’m out.”

Ginny gave him a funny look. They both winced when he met her eyes, but they didn’t look away immediately. “What’s so bad about nitro-whatever?” she asked.

“Well, I guess it’s not as bad as that sand-burning stuff, but nitroglycerin is like…well, glycerin, except it’s super-unstable, and it’ll explode if you so much as drop it.”

“Oh.” Ginny looked at George, and then Hermione. “Yeah, I’m with Harry on this one,” she agreed.

“Huh, that actually _does_ sound really dangerous,” George said.

“It is,” Hermione confirmed. “But it’s very stable if you mix it with other stuff. Still, easier to just leave it out.”

Hermione had certainly been more cheerful the past three days. She was finally sleeping—mostly—and hardly knew what to do with herself with all the free time she suddenly had. (At George’s prompting, snogging became a fair bit of it.)

“Fair enough,” George conceded. “So, these muggle guns. They use this powder like a tiny rocket to shoot bits of lead?”

“To shoot bits of lead faster than the speed of sound,” she corrected. “At those speeds, they’ll go right through you and keep going. The more powerful ones will go clean through a truck.”

“Bloody hell! And muggles use them instead of wands?”

“Oh, heaven’s no. Most muggles don’t use them at all. They’re regulated…well, it’s complicated, but think along the lines of dark artifacts…To be honest, this one we’re working on probably isn’t legal, but it’s not like I’ll ever use it in the muggle world.”

George laughed. “Who would’ve thought that little Goody Two-Shoes we met back in third year would come to this.”

“Clearly, you’ve corrupted me,” Hermione deadpanned. She looked down at the half-finished gun they were trying to assemble. It wasn’t much: a simple pipe, a magazine that was nothing more than a box, and a trigger. “Real guns have a lot of built-in mechanisms to load and fire the bullets, and the bullets have to have a bit of primer to work—sort of like flash powder.”

“But for this, we can just use runes for all of it?” George said.

“Exactly. And most importantly, we can make it _silent_ —or near-silent, anyway…We probably _should_ try rockets, too. They have more firepower than a Blasting Curse.”

He stared at her. “Are you serious?”

“Uh huh. Have you ever heard of a bazooka?”

* * *

_Day 56_

“We need to figure out our next move,” Harry said.

Hermione sighed with resignation. Not that she disagreed, but it brought back that they still had so far to go. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “Once you two are recovered, we have three things left to do. We have to find Hufflepuff’s cup, we have to kill You-Know-Who’s snake…and then You-Know-Who himself.” And God only knew how they’d manage that last one. “And I’m guessing in that order?”

“Definitely in that order,” Harry agreed. “If we even try to go after Nagini, You-Know-Who will notice, and if we somehow kill You-Know-Who first, he’ll just come back as a spirit like last time.”

“So we need to find Hufflepuff’s cup,” George said. “Any idea where it is?”

Hermione shrugged. “If we’re lucky, it’s only in a tiny castle beyond the Bridge of Death occupied by ill-tempered Frenchmen.”

George, Harry, and Ginny all stared at her. “What?” they said.

“Muggle joke. Never mind.” She missed having other muggle-borns around. “No, I don’t have any idea.”

“Actually, we’ve been thinking about that,” Ginny spoke up.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. You see, um…Harry and I have been talking, and we remembered some stuff you told us about Malfoy Manor.” She looked at them with an uncomfortable expression.

Hermione shivered, and George tensed beside her. She was getting better, but she still sometimes saw Bellatrix’s mad face at night. “It’s alright, Ginny,” she said. “What about it?”

Harry closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Well, we only had what you told us to go on, but for the longest time, I though Bellatrix wasn’t making any sense,” he said, “but now, we’re thinking, she was asking you about places we’ve been, wasn’t she?”

Hermione bit her lip. As painful as it was to think about, it came back to her: “Bellatrix was obsessed with how I’d done the geomancy for my ley line map. She kept asking me where I’d done it.”

“You said she sounded like she was panicking,” Harry said. “Or at least one of you did. Like it was really, really bad if we’d been there.”

“ _Ohh_. You think Bellatrix hid Hufflepuff’s cup one of those places?” she said.

“I don’t think it was Bellatrix. Remember? You said she thought you were after _Rookwood_. I bet Rookwood hid it, but Bellatrix was in on it.”

George perked up at that. “That could be. That’d be something they’d do, right? I mean, Malfoy had the first one.”

“Exactly,” Ginny said. “It makes sense for another Death Eater to have one, and Rookwood would be the best at hiding it.”

“Great. Hermione, do you…do you remember what places she said?”

Hermione took a deep breath and resigned herself. “I _can_ remember,” she said. She stood up and retrieved Ravenclaw’s diadem from her tent before returning to the fire. She held it over her head and hesitated, her hand trembling. George took her other hand in his and squeezed it. She nodded to him and put the diadem on.

Fighting the storm of external sensations, she dove into her heightened memories. She trembled more as she remembered the pain, the screams, and the desperation, but finally, she remembered Bellatrix’s demand:

_“Where have you been! Narborough, Fringford, Highworth, Lyneham, North Curry! Where did you measure from?”_

She pulled the diadem off her head and nearly flung it away. The others were watching her intently. Composing herself, she said, “Well…it looks like we have a lead.”

George chuckled and squeezed her hand again. “Just don’t overdo it like last time,” he warned her.

She shook her head. “No danger of that, George. We have time, for once. We won’t be going anywhere until Harry and Ginny have time to recover…But I think my geomancy project just moved to the top of my priority list.”

* * *

_Day 57_

“Luna Lovegood,” Hermione said, activating the two-way mirror. The mirror wasn’t anywhere near Luna Lovegood, of course, but hers was the last name it had been keyed for, and they couldn’t change it now. It took a minute before anyone answered. Finally, Neville appeared, though he looked worse than the last time they’d seen him. His right eye was nearly swollen shut, and he had long cuts on his face, but he smiled when he saw her.

“‘Ermi’ne?” he said. “Am I glad t’see you. How are you? Is Harry there?”

“Neville?” she said.

“Yeah. ‘Sbeen a while. Is Harry okay?”

“Well…yes,” she said. “Oh, the password is ‘Ardennes,’ by the way. Harry? Come here, please.”

Harry and Ginny came over. Hermione motioned for Harry to come sit beside her, but for Ginny to stay back. She didn’t want Neville to see her scar.

Neville smiled wider when Harry’s face came into view. “Harry! Thank God. Been worried about you, mate. We heard about you lot killing Greyback ’n’ Pettigrew, and next thing we know, you just drop off the face of the Earth for two months. People are starting to think you’re dead.”

Harry stared at the mirror. “Um…no, I’m alive, Neville,” he said. “And you could’ve called us with the mirror.”

Neville tilted his head. “I tried that. Don’t you remember? Hermione only called me to talk to Professor Babbling, and when I tried to call you, she told me not to call unless it was an emergency and put the mirror someplace dark.”

Harry turned to Hermione, and her face grew hot. “I…I’m sorry. I don’t even remember that, Neville. I’ve been so buried in my work the past two months I lost track of everything else.”

“Are you okay? Is something wrong.”

“No, no. We were…um…” She considered how much to reveal. “We were completing one of the tasks Dumbledore set for us—quite possibly the most difficult one.”

Neville grinned again: “That’s great! This’ll help you beat You-Know-Who, then?”

“We hope so,” Harry said. “There’s a couple more tricky bits to figure out first, though.”

The mirror wobbled in Neville’s hands—more than usual. Hermione caught a glimpse of sheets and a pillow around his face. That wasn’t normal. To her chagrin, she had actually called to talk to Professor Babbling again, but it wasn’t so urgent this time. “Neville…are you in bed?” she asked.

“Uh, yeah. About that—things are getting pretty rough here.”

“I’ll say,” Harry said. “Are you in the Hospital Wing?”

“No way. Too dangerous. There’s no way I’d be safe there. I’m hiding out in the Room of Requirement…I might not be able to show my face out there even when I’m healed.”

“What happened?” Hermione said.

“What about the rest of the D.A.?” asked Harry.

“We’ve been using the buddy system so no one’s left on their own,” Neville said. “And…it’s complicated.”

“How did you get hurt?” Harry demanded.

“How d’you think? The Carrows. They tried to make me ‘practice’ the Cruciatus Curse on a couple of firsties they’d chained up. I refused. They didn’t like that.”

“Chained up?” Hermione cut in.

“Yeah…It’s been a while since you’ve been here. No offence, but it’s worse than it was then. The Carrows have got freer and freer with the Cruciatus. At first it was just people who were of age, and only if they did something really bad, but they kept using it more and more. Now, it’s standard fare for pretty much all detentions, and they do other stuff if they get bored—Like cutting people up—” He pointed to the slashes in his face. “—or putting them in chains.”

George had crowded around behind them to see Neville, and Ginny had tried to get in, but Hermione motioned her off again. Finally, she tied a makeshift bandage around her head to cover her scar and stepped into view.

“That’s sick! First years?” Ginny said.

“Uh huh. You okay, Ginny?” He noticed her bandage.

“Hurt my head. I’ll be fine. I’m more worried about you.”

Neville tilted his head a bit in something like a shrug. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “They can’t get me in here. It’s hardest for people who have family and friends fighting on the outside—people like Megan. I told her to think about hiding out here too. I dunno if she will.”

“They can’t just cut you up like that,” George hissed.

Hermione rubbed her left arm. The cuts had long since healed, but the scars reading _MUDBLOOD_ still showed clearly when she looked. She decided to change the subject before George got too worked up. “Neville, how many students have been tortured?” she said.

“Third year and down, not that many. One in five, maybe. I know that sounds like a lot but it’s better than if it were all of them. We all tell them to keep their heads down and not act out for anything. Usually, all it takes is seeing one of their friends go through that for them to get the message. But fifth year and up? I don’t think anyone who’s not a Slytherin escaped them.”

“Who’s doing it?” asked Harry.

“Carrows—and Crouch sometimes. About half of the sixth and seventh years did it at some point, but mostly just the Slytherins. We did what you said, Hermione. Had a walkout on the Dark Arts class. Most of us did. But then, they…got creative.”

She shivered. “Creative” could mean a lot of pretty nasty things.

“What did they do?” Harry continued.

“They tried adding it to the Charms curriculum, but Flitwick wouldn’t teach it. Then they talked about making Dark Arts mandatory and making sure we showed up, but a bunch of us who were of age threatened to drop out over it. I dunno if we would’ve done it—you know, ‘cause of the younger kids—but they backed down. Then then brought back something like Umbridge’s Inquisitorial Squad—basically every Slytherin who would _want_ to use it has permission to use it in the halls, and they can just make up a reason.”

“Merlin. What about Daphne and Tracey?” Hermione asked.

“Not them, that I know of—they’re not on the squad, anyway. But it’s getting bad out there. The thing they did with me was supposed to be _my_ detention. Torturing little kids! That’s how screwed up it is. I put out word for other people to hide in here if the pressure’s too much.”

Hermione frowned. She could hardly imagine living in a situation like that. She knew they existed, in places like Rwanda or Cambodia—had read up on them months ago when she still had easy access to a library. But seeing Neville live through it, she wondered for the first time if they’d taken the easy path out here in the wilderness.

“What about the other Unforgivables?” asked Harry.

“We worked on the Imperius Curse for a little while. Thing is, that one’s legal if you have consent, so we—the D.A., that is—all agreed we could use it on each other to help us learn to resist it.”

“That’s hard to do,” Hermione said. “Did it do any good?”

“I think it did all of us a little good. A couple of people got good at fighting it. But the Carrows caught on when we refused to use it on younger kids, and they stopped it. And they only teach the third one to people they trust.”

“Figures,” Ginny said.

“Stay strong, Neville,” Harry said. “Keep safe over there.”

“Get other people out of there if you need to,” Hermione added.

“Will do, guys,” Neville said. “So, anything else going on?”

Hermione bit her lip. “Er…I actually _did_ want to talk to Professor Babbling again—but it doesn’t need to be right away if there’s trouble. Sometime in the next couple weeks, I need to discuss geomancy with her. It’s important to our next move.”

“Geomancy, huh?” Neville said. “Well, she’d be better than anyone else. Well, Tinworth might, but I wouldn’t trust the new guy. I’ll tell Lavender to get the mirror to her.”

“Thanks, Neville.”

* * *

_Day 58_

“Tonks had the baby!”

“What?!” Harry, Ginny, and George all cried.

“I got a message from Kingsley.” She held up her ring, and they all crowded around. “It must have come last night.”

“That’s great!” Ginny squealed. “Boy or girl?”

Hermione read the message, looking it over twice. “The name is Sasha.”

George cocked her head. “Is that a boy or a girl?” she asked.

“I…don’t know. It could be either. The message just gives the name.”

“Well, that’s dumb,” Ginny said. “Can you ask them back?”

“I can try, but I don’t know how many links it has to go through to get back to Remus and Tonks.”

“Eh, try it,” George said. “Meantime, I should probably pass it on to the rest of the family.”

“Good idea,” Ginny agreed. “Mum’ll go spare if we keep it from her.”

* * *

_Day 64_

In theory, the global ley line network was a perfect geometric shape. In practice, as Hermione had discovered, continental drift bent the ley lines as the magical constructions built around them moved, but even then, it never deviated more than a couple hundred yards.

The most interesting result of this was that Hermione could calculate the latitudes of important magical centres perfectly. For example, with a bit of spherical trigonometry, she could determine that Hogwarts was built at _exactly_ 58 degrees, 16 minutes, and 57 seconds north latitude—now closer to 58 seconds with continental drift.

But like the early seafarers, the school’s longitude was not so easy to pin down. They couldn’t just use a chronometer because time and space drifted around Hogwarts, fluctuating by miles and as much as half an hour. Somehow, this never caused synchronisation problems with the Ministry. If you had an appointment, you always seemed to get there on time. If it was a casual trip, you always wound up having to adjust your watch.

When Hermione mentioned this to Professor Babbling, she suggested that if she could plot the five towns Bellatrix had mentioned on a map, she might be able to figure out which ley lines were associated with them and match them to real latitude and longitude coordinates. Hermione tried it, and it turned out to be far easier than she expected. Throwing caution to the wind, she “borrowed” a road atlas of the United Kingdom from a library after hours and looked up the towns of Narborough, Fringford, Highworth, Lyneham, and North Curry, and she discovered something very interesting: they were all on the same line—a line pretty near to where the most powerful ley line running through the interior of England was supposed to be.

That pretty much confirmed Harry’s and Ginny’s theory. All of those towns must be on major convergences with stone circles sitting on them—the perfect place to hide a horcrux hidden behind the most powerful wards possible. Now, they just needed to figure out which one hid it.

She still thought “on Mars” would be a better choice, but luckily for them, You-Know-Who didn’t.

She was a bit stuck there for now, so she decided to sit on it for a while. They had time. And in any case, Hermione had something very different on her mind today.

“Happy birthday, George,” she said, greeting her boyfriend with a heated kiss.

George smiled down at her when she pulled away. “Thanks, Hermione,” he said. “It’s a nice day, too. Finally warming up. I just wish Fred could be here, too.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry about that. We could probably call him, but—”

“It’s safer if he stays put,” George asserted. “With as much as we move around and the rest of the family hunkering down, it’s easier, anyway.”

“We could still visit him, you know. I visited Fleur and your Mum.”

“Only because you had to. Besides, I don’t have any pranks prepared, and that’s the ultimate _faux pas_.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and put one hand on her hips. “Really, George. After everything you told me about taking care of myself. You need to see to yourself, too. You deserve a chance to see Fred today.”

“It’s okay, Hermione,” he insisted. “I’m just fine spending the day with my girlfriend.”

“Well, too bad, ‘cause you got me anyway!”

George spun around with wide eyes just in time to see Fred come out of hiding. “Freddie!” he said, and he ran to hug his twin. “What are you doing here?”

“I went and got him,” Hermione said.

George spun back around to look at her. “Why you cheeky little witch,” he said, and he kissed her again and spun her around.

Hermione smiled and kissed him back. It was a bit of a risk, but it was worth it. As it was, her greatest danger had been getting mobbed by Crookshanks. She was ashamed to say she’d nearly forgotten about him, but luckily, he’d followed Arthur from Muriel’s house.

She honestly didn’t know _what_ had happened to Hedwig.

“Fred!” Ginny squealed when she both both twins in the camp, and she ran out to hug her prodigal brother. Harry stumbled along behind her. “Happy birthday!” she cried.

“Hey, there, Gin-Gin. How are you—and what happened to your head?”

Ginny paled. No one outside the camp knew the exact outcome of the ritual yet, although Fleur knew most of it. She turned around and looked at Harry, then at Hermione. “Well, you see, I was walking along, and…I fell…right into this thornbush, and—”

Fred started laughing. “I’m kidding, Ginny,” he said. “Hermione told me when we came in so I wouldn’t be surprised.” He turned serious and gave Harry an intimidating stare, and this time, Harry paled a bit. “It’s pretty messed-up, but I’m glad you got You-Know-Who out of your head. And I guess if it had to be someone for Ginny, you’re a pretty good choice. No promises when Ron finds out though.”

“Er, yeah. Thanks, Fred,” Harry said awkwardly.

“So how’re you two doing?” Fred asked.

Harry and Ginny glanced at each other, and Ginny answered for them: “Well, we can look at each other without getting blinding headaches now. It still hurts after a minute or so, though. I think we’re seeing each other’s dreams part of the time, too.”

“Dreams?”

“Yeah,” Harry said uncomfortably. “Hermione says stuff leaks through when we’re feeling strong emotions. Ginny’s seeing stuff from my childhood in her dreams that there’s no way she could remember.”

“Harry’s been teaching me Occlumency,” she continued. “Hasn’t been much else to do, really. It’s helping.”

“Well, that’s good,” Fred answered. “You take care of her, Harry.”

“Always,” said Harry.

Hermione soon got both twins’ attention again and produced her gifts. “I wanted to get you both something,” she said.

“Hey, bringing Fred out here is a pretty good gift,” George said.

She blushed slightly. “You’re welcome, George, but even so, I wanted to get you proper gifts. There’s not much to work with out here, but I remembered you were interested in lockpicking, and I thought these might interest you.” To each twin, she held out a complicated tangle of multiple loops of thick wire in strange shapes. They were each as large as their open hands, similar to each other, but not quite identical. “These are called topological puzzles—or just wire puzzles. They’re muggle toys made vaguely along the same lines. The idea is to get the long, thin loop out of the rest of the loops without cutting or bending the wire.”

George and Fred took the puzzles and started fiddling with them. They both saw that it would not be an easy task, and they grinned.

“This is really neat,” George said.

“Might even be able to add them to our muggle magic line,” Fred suggested. “Simpler, versions, anyway. We wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.”

“Ha. Maybe. Thank you, Hermione,” George added, and he kissed her again.

“You’re welcome,” Hermione replied. “And most of them _are_ simpler. _These—_ ” She tapped each one with a finger. “—are one of a kind. I used Ravenclaw’s diadem to recreate the most complex one I could remember seeing, and while I was wearing it, I saw some easy ways to customise them.”

“So _that_ _’s_ what you were doing with the diadem all day yesterday,” George said.

“Well, I got sidetracked for a couple hours on Rookwood’s Flight Spell, but mostly yes.” She reached into their tent and held up a heavily marked-up notebook filled with equations and diagrams for flight.

George sighed, shaking his head. “Just be careful with it, okay?”

“Of course I will. Anyway, I also made them from titanium and doubled the size, so they’re much less likely to get lost or broken.”

“Brilliant,” said Fred. “This looks like fun.”

“I’m glad you like it. Happy birthday, both of you.”

* * *

_Day 67_

“Hi, Neville,” Hermione said. “You’re looking better.”

Neville was sitting up on a chair now and looked to be mending well enough, albeit with some minor scarring. Behind his face in the mirror, though, the Room looked different—larger and more elaborate. “Hey, Hermione. Hey, Harry,” he answered. “How are you doing?”

“About the same.”

“What’s the situation up there, Neville?” asked Harry.

“Eh, so-so,” Neville said. “Megan joined me here in the Room. Seamus says it’s kind of freaky being the only one in the dorm, so he might be coming soon, too. Michael Corner’s here. He got beaten half to death for trying to unchain some of the firsties, and he says he’s out. The Room made more hammocks and curtains and stuff for them.”

“That’s good,” Harry replied. “What about everybody else?”

“Safe for now, but I have a feeling it’s gonna get worse. The Carrows and their squad are searching for anyone who goes missing, and it’s already getting harder for people to sneak in here. We’re communicating more by Protean Charm. How’s you’re master plan going?”

“Stalled, I’m afraid,” Hermione sighed. “We need to find a certain thing that You-Know-Who hid somewhere.”

“What, like a weapon?”

“Yes, like a weapon. Don’t tell anyone about that, though. We can’t risk it getting back to him. The bad news is that we really don’t have any leads. We should be able to look into the information Dumbledore gave us in a few weeks, but he didn’t have time to put the pieces together before he died.”

“Damn. Is there anyway we can help?”

“I don’t think so. Not from there, sorry.”

“Ah, well. I hope you figure it out soon. I don’t know what’ll happen here come summer.”

“We’ll do our best,” Harry said. “Just hang in there.”

“All we can do, I guess,” Neville said. “So did you need to talk to Professor Babbling again? She’s part of it right?”

“Yes, but she’s already told me everything she knows,” Hermione said. “It’s helped narrow down the location, but not enough. I actually wanted to talk to Anthony Goldstein. Can you get hold of him.”

Neville raised an eyebrow. “Anthony? Okay, I’ll put a message out. Might take him a while, though.”

Harry snorted: “We’re hiding out in the woods, Nev. No rush.”

It took a couple of hours, but Neville finally put Anthony through to Hermione.

“Hey, Hermione. What’s up?”

“Hi, Anthony,” she said. “Thanks for coming in. Er…I’m sorry if this is _completely_ barking up the wrong tree, but you’re the only Jewish wizard I know. Do you speak any Hebrew?”

Anthony raised his eyebrows. “Phew…” he sighed. “If you’d asked me in first or second year, I could’ve told you a lot. I think I’ve forgotten most of it since my _bar mitzvah_. Why?”

“This is a complete secret, you understand?” she told him. He nodded. “Do you recognise the words, _Yovad yom ivaled bo?_ ”

Anthony stared at her, mouthing the words to himself. “First off, your accent is atrocious,” he said. “But…that’s Book of Job, right?”

“Yes. _Let the day perish on which I was born._ ”

“Okay, and what’s this about?”

“I need to know how to change it to the third person. I don’t trust myself with Hebrew grammar like I do Latin or Greek, and I feel like I really need to get it right for this.”

Anthony looked a nervous. “Hermione…are you trying to invent a spell _from_ that?” he said.

She was silent for a minute. It was still half an idle thought, but Hermione had a hunch this was the edge they needed. Once they destroyed Hufflepuff’s cup and killed Nagini, that still left one big problem: You-Know-Who was just too powerful to face head-on. With the power he’d shown, she feared he could stand against the entire Order of the Phoenix and come out on top. If she could find another way…

“Probably the less you know the better,” she said. “But trust me when I say it could be useful in the war.”

“Right. So you want, ‘Let the day perish on which…’”

“ _He_ was born. And with a proper name.”

Anthony winced a little. “Hermione, if you’re trying to do what I think you’re trying to do…”

“Leave that to me if you don’t mind,” she insisted. “I’m not even sure if it’s doable yet, but I need to get the words right.”

“Well, okay,” he said. “Just don’t do it anywhere near me when you do whatever it is you’re planning. So, to say it in third person, it would be, _Yovad yom_ proper name _bo nolad_. That’s the simplest way, anyway. I think _ivaled_ is some weird construction involving future tense, but don’t hold me to it. Is that important?”

Hermione considered. “No, past simple is fine,” she said, making a note of the answer. “Now, in Verse 8— _Let those curse it who curse the day_. What if I want that to be _first_ person…?”

* * *

_Day 76_

“And concentrate it into the bottle…” Hermione said, carefully funnelling her latest creation into a small container. “With the runes, that should aerosolise well. And…done.”

“What’re you working on, George asked.

A grenade, of sorts—something I can’t produce quickly and reliably with my wand. This one is concentrated capsaicin spray. It’s the active ingredient in hot sauce, but far more potent. These concentrations dispersed in the air will cause burning pain in the eyes and mucous membranes.”

“Wow, sounds like strong stuff,” he said. “What if the Death Eaters use Bubble-Head Charms, though?”

“That would reduce its effectiveness, of course, but if any of it gets into the bubble, it’ll be hard to get out.”

“Huh. Sounds good. And what’s that?” He pointed to another phial.

“It’s…poisonous,” she said, and she looked up at him uncomfortably. “Not sure if I’ll have cause to use it, but I’ve given up seeing a lot of things as off-limits…” She watched his expression carefully.

“I trust you, Hermione,” he said. “If you think you’ll need it, it’s good you have it.”

She nodded. _I wish I trusted myself that much_ , she thought.

“Ginny and Harry up yet?” George asked her.

“Hm?” She looked up. “I think they’re still asleep.”

George gave a funny look at their tent.

Hermione guessed what he was thinking and said, “I’m sure they’re just sleeping, George. It’s not their fault that they can’t sleep through the night in separate beds.”

He looked back down at her. “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I know they need to stay together. It’s just awkward.”

“They’ve made remarkable progress for only three weeks,” she responded. Not having anything else to do was a great motivator. “The trouble is, wounds to the soul like theirs won’t heal easily, if at all…It wouldn’t surprise me if they never feel comfortable sleeping apart again.” She chuckled weakly. “It sounds like something from a bad magical romance novel, but it’s really not romantic.”

George stared at Harry’s and Ginny’s tent longer this time. “They’re gonna get married, aren’t they?” he mused.

Hermione frowned. “That’d surprise me even less,” she said. “It doesn’t make it any more romantic, though.”

“How come?”

“Their horcrux connection isn’t something from a storybook. And love isn’t static. Even if it _was_ created by true love, I don’t think it would stop them from falling _out_ of love a year or ten years down the road—hypothetically, of course—and then where would they be?”

George frowned as he considered the implications. Truthfully, Hermione wasn’t all that worried for them. Harry and Ginny had had a pretty stable relationship for several years, but when the consequences were being stuck together for life, she didn’t like not being completely sure.

After a little while, she packed up her new weapons and moved on to a different project: the self-replicating runes. She was hoping for an easy fix to that potential disaster, and she thought she might have a lead. But she was interrupted when Harry and Ginny finally stumbled out the tent. To Hermione’s and George’s alarm, they were both nursing serious headaches. They sat down heavily by the fire, and Harry leaned forward with his fists against his head while Ginny flopped backwards and draped her arm over her eyes.

Hermione hadn’t seen the pair like that since the ritual. “Harry! Ginny! Are you okay?” she said.

“Ugh. Mostly,” Harry groaned. “Say d’you think you can moleclu—moleculal—whatever you do to create some ibuprofen?” he finished in frustration.

Hermione sighed. “Here, I’ve got some in my bag,” she said. She went into the tent and got out the bottle that Harry had bought for her after Malfoy Manor. She tossed it to them, and Harry took two, then prodded Ginny to take two as well.

“What happened?” George said. “I thought you were getting better.”

“We are,” Harry said. “We wanted to try reading each other’s thoughts. You know, Legilimency.”

“Oh,” said Hermione. “I take it you overdid it? It’s supposed to be harder than Occlumency.”

“Nah, that’s the problem,” he said. “It’s too easy.”

“Too easy?”

Ginny sat up. “Uh huh,” she said. “We’re already getting it in our dreams, but we can’t control it. I got a ton of images and stuff I couldn’t make head or tail of, and I think Harry got it worse, and then the headaches came back.”

“I think it would’ve been pretty easy to look into You-Know-Who’s mind if I’d ever tried,” Harry agreed. “It was blocking him out that was the hard part. When _we_ tried it, it was like looking each other in the eyes was at first.”

Hermione saw where this was going: “Because it’s when the connection is open that you feel the pull that gives you a headache. You’ve been learning to close it off with Occlumency, but now you have to figure out how to open it a controlled amount.”

Ginny looked up at her. “Hmm…that makes sense,” she said. “I get how that would be harder.”

“Maybe you two should lay off,” George suggested. “You’re getting good at handling normal, day-to-day stuff.”

Harry shrugged: “I guess we’ll have to take it slower, but I reckoned it’d be dead useful in a fight if we could figure out how to control it.”

Hermione nodded. “It would be. Just don’t try to rely on it too much. Even if you can learn it fast, you could hurt yourselves if you try using it in the heat of the moment.”

“Right. we’ll keep that in mind.”

“Okay then,” she said, going back to her figures. Soon, she went back to the tent and got out Ravenclaw’s diadem. She was sure George would give her a hard time about it, but she _was_ still trying to save the world, here.

* * *

_Day 77_

“ _Eureka!_ ” Hermione shouted, and she laughed to herself.

“Found something?” George asked, poking his head into the tent.

“Yes. It turns out it wasn’t nearly as bad as I thought,” she said. “It’s not a full solution, but it’s enough to avoid the worst-case scenario. I checked, and self-replicating runes really _won_ _’t_ replicate perfectly. They’ll degrade the same as self-duplicating objects. The only way around that is if they’re copied from a master copy, and the only way to do _that_ is to continuously feed magic into the system from a central point. It won’t stop all versions of the attack, but it’d be pretty hard to do it by accident. And the laws of transfiguration limit how fast and thoroughly it could work.”

“Um…that’s good, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, George, it’s good. It’s not fantastic. You could probably still set it up to work…Ugh.” She shivered as another idle thought flashed through her mind. “The point is, it wouldn’t scale nearly as easily as I feared.”

“Great. So what’s next?” he asked.

“Well, Harry and Ginny will probably be ready for duty again soon. In the meantime, I wanted to poke at my geomancy project some more. And there’s that curse from the Book of Job.”

“Do you think you can actually _use_ that curse?” a voice came from outside the tent. George stepped aside, and Harry ducked his head in. “I mean, would it even be useful?”

Hermione shrugged. “There’s a ton of caveats—like we’d have to be at the Anchor Stones of Hogwarts. And I’m not entirely sure what it would _do_ yet. Right now, I’m still just considering it as a possibility, but I think it could be very useful.”

* * *

_Day 78_

“I don’t know that ‘deplore’ really translates well,” Anthony said. “Would ‘lament’ work? I think that’s probably the closest.”

Hermione shrugged: “Good enough.”

“Is this for the same thing as before, Hermione?”

“No, something different. I still want to get it right, though.”

“Well, ‘lament’ is… _lispod?_ No, _lispod_ is eulogise. Um, lament, cry, wail— _lekonen_.”

 _“Lekonen,”_ she repeated. “Is that _kaph-nun-nun?_ ”

“Um…I think it’s technically _qoph-nun-nun_.”

“Right. And I want the plural imperative intensive form,” Hermione said.

Anthony gave her another one of those funny looks. “Like…ordering a group of people to mourn and lament?”

“Uh huh. Intensively,” she repeated.

“Do I want to know?” he said.

“Probably not.”

“Right. I might regret this, but the form would be… _Qanenu._ Yeah. So, any other ominous, pseudo-Biblical translations you want?”

“Just one for future reference. How would you go about saying, ‘I cast you out, unclean spirit?’”

Anthony groaned: “This is what Padma was talking about with abominations again nature, isn’t it?”

* * *

_Day 84_

“I think I figured out where Hufflepuff’s cup is,” Hermione told the group.

“You did?” Harry said. “How?”

“I think Bellatrix wasn’t _quite_ as stupid as we thought,” she said. She folded out the map for them to see. Ley lines criss-crossed it up and down Great Britain, computed with spherical trigonometry, but one in particular was highlighted.

“Look here,” she said. “This is the line the five towns she mentioned are on. I don’t think that was a bluff because it’s the most powerful line Rookwood could have used, and all of those towns are on major intersections on this line. But there are _seven_ major intersections on this line, not five. I think she didn’t tell us where the horcrux is because it’s one of the ones she _didn_ _’t_ mention.”

“You think she was trying to bait you into saying the real hiding spot?” George asked.

“Maybe…Or maybe she was just panicking, and I’m was reading too much into it—”

“But Rookwood wouldn’t panic so easily,” Harry reasoned.

“Exactly. Now, of those two, Huntingdon is too large and too heavily populated. If I have any understanding of how Rookwood operates, he wouldn’t put it there. So I’d put the highest chance of finding the horcrux _here_. Wellow, Somerset, population five hundred…at least if he didn’t get spooked and move it after the Manor.”

“I don’t think he would’ve,” Harry said. “If You-Know-Who had a clue that we were hunting horcruxes…we would’ve noticed. They probably believed your story after we escaped.”

Hermione growled softly. Of course they did _then_.

“The real problem is all of the traps and protections that Rookwood will have put around it,” Harry said. “How are we going to get through those?”

Hermione looked down seriously and twirled her red oak wand in her hand. _“Magrisha Kedavra,”_ she said, then looked up at them. “We don’t need to get through them. We just need to be able to _see_ it.”

“Huh?”

“Rookwood doesn’t know I created a spell to destroy horcruxes. It’s similar enough to the Killing Curse that it’ll go through most magical shields. If I can get a clear line of sight to the cup, I can destroy it.”

“Something like that won’t just be sitting out in the open,” George pointed out.

“No, but I can detect it with _Atma Prakata_. And we still won’t have to touch it—or get out _with_ it. That alone should avoid the worst of it.”

“We don’t have Dumbledore or Bill anymore,” Harry countered. “And none of us know much of anything about cursebreaking.” He glanced at Ginny, but she shook her head.

“There’s no way Fleur will help on this one,” Ginny said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at them. We’re they already getting the hang of Legilimency? She didn’t get a chance to ask before Harry looked back at her and came to a decision: “I think we’re going to have to tell more people.”


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *And that’s it!* I’ve finally finished reposting all of my stories from Fanfiction.net. 357 individual chapters, and more than a month of work! This chapter is brand new today, and future chapters will tentatively be posted every Saturday.
> 
> Disclaimer: Hello Stonehenge! Who takes Harry Potter takes the universe. But bad news everyone, ‘cause guess who! It’s JK Rowling!
> 
> NotAFanficWriter has drawn my attention to the fact that the English Standard Version of the Bible is a new translation published in 2001. I had it confused with its predecessor, the Revised Standard Version, which is what Hermione would be mostly likely to have grown up with in her home. On further investigation, I also learnt that the Gideons Bible she picked up would probably be the King James Version. After considering my options, I decided to keep the ESV. While it’s a bit anachronistic, I consider the ESV one of the most quotable translations, so it’s more readable this way. (The Gideons have also begun using it more recently.)

_Day 93_

Hermione suited up in full battle gear for the first time since the battle over Dover. She donned her carbon nanotube-reinforced clothes and put on her basilisk-skin coat, ragged though it was. On impulse she cut away the torn left sleeve and exposed her bare arm.

“Hermione what are you doing?” George asked.

“Me? I’m making a statement.” She strapped her wand holster to her arm, and then her folded buckler over it on the other side, but she adjusted the straps so that they framed the scar cut into her arm that read _MUDBLOOD_ on a bare patch of skin.

“You…you don’t need to flaunt it like that,” he said.

“I think I do, George.” She strapped on her other holsters, including a new holdout wand on her thigh, and a new stiletto on her ankle. With those, plus a few new tricks in her handbag and Snickersnack girded around her waist, she was ready. “What do you think?” she asked. “This is the image I’m trying to project…Don’t you think I look more intimidating this way?”

George looked her up and down, and his face started to turn red. “You know what? You’re right. That is a good look for you. You’ll strike fear into the hearts of the Death Eaters and look damn sexy doing it.”

Hermione turned far redder. George had given her a lot of compliments over the years, but “sexy” wasn’t been one of them up to now. Before she could say anything, he kissed her.

It took some doing to assemble the team. No one had been to Wellow, so they couldn’t Apparate there, and a Portkey could potentially be tracked. The village was about five miles south of Bath, where they _could_ Apparate, so they met at a secluded location there: Harry, Ginny, Hermione, George, Fred, Ron, Sirius, Kingsley, and, after much consideration, Remus. Sirius was the only other person who already knew about the horcruxes, and Kingsley and Remus were the only Order members still living who had anything close to real cursebreaking experience.

Ron, to Hermione’s surprise, hadn’t blown up at her when they told him about Harry’s and Ginny’s connection. He _had_ started to yell at Harry—not out of malice; just because his mouth tended to run ahead of his brain—but Ginny cut him off pretty quickly, so they managed to avoid serious drama there.

They arrived early, before sunrise. There was just enough light to see as the nine assembled there.

“Harry,” a quiet voice called.

“Sirius!” Harry hugged his godfather as he joined the group, and he was just as excited to see Remus when he arrived.

“Remus, how’s the baby?” he asked.

“And seriously, is it a boy or a girl?” Ginny jumped in. “You gits never told us.”

“Remus broke into a broad grin. “Sasha’s a boy. And he’s great. And extremely tiring. And I hope we never have to put him in a nursery, or I won’t recognise him when I come to get him.”

“Wha—Tonks’ ability?” Ginny said.

“Yes, he’s a Metamorphmagus like his mother. She’s already trying to get him to match her hair colour. In fact, that’s why we named him Sasha instead of a family name. Dora insisted on a unisex name.”

“How come?”

“Because apparently, Metamorphs can switch.”

Hermione’s head snapped around to the conservation. “What?” she said, her eyes wide.

“I know, it surprised me, too,” Remus said.

“I would’ve thought that wouldn’t work. The chromosomes are different.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said. “All I know is, it’s magic. Apparently, it’s harder though, so they can’t do it on a whim, thank Merlin, but that’s one of the reasons Dora doesn’t like her own name, so she insisted on unisex. But she said she tried being a boy one summer and didn’t like it, so Sasha will probably stay a boy too.”

Hermione stared and just shook her head. She made a mental note to figure out that puzzle if she ever got the chance.

“Listen, Harry,” Remus went on, “we couldn’t get a message through to you earlier with you hiding out. Will you be godfather?”

Harry’s eyes grew wide. He stared at Remus, then at Ginny for a moment. Hermione wasn’t sure what thoughts were exchanged if any, but it seemed to resolve him. “I—I’d be honoured, Remus. Me? Really?”

“Of course. Dora quite agrees—no one better.”

“Ha!” Sirius laughed and slapped Harry on the back. “Now we can start a club, pup. It’ll be great.”

“How’s Tonks—or Dora?” asked Ginny.

“She’s doing well,” Remus answered, “except she tore me a new one for coming on this mission…or coming on this mission without her. I’m not sure which.” He stopped and leaned closer to her. “Ginny, what happened to your head?”

“Her head?” Sirius said, and then he saw her scar, too. “What the hell?”

Hermione spoke up: “Long story. Suffice it to say, You-Know-Who can’t get into Harry’s head anymore.”

“But that scar—were you hit by—”

“No, different spell,” she cut him off.

Sirius turned—well, serious, and nodded sagely. “The thing you working on for Harry?” he asked.

“Yes. It’s sorted.”

“What’s this?” Remus asked.

“Tell you later.” Sirius glanced at Harry, who nodded. “Yeah. Tell you later. I’m not sure who knows.”

Kingsley was the only other person present who didn’t know about the horcrux in Harry’s scar, but no one contradicted him. They needed to get moving, after all. They’d called in most of their favours and scrounged up enough brooms to make the flight. They didn’t want to spend two hours walking to the site when time was of the essence. They mounted their brooms and took off, flying low to the ground and Disillusioned, but fast. _The Fellowship of the Horcrux_ , Hermione thought idly. If only anyone else there would understand the reference. It didn’t take long to reach their destination by broom. Finding the stone circle, however, was more difficult.

“Hermione, where is it?” Ron called.

“Give me a minute,” she said. She knew where the intersection was on the map, but she only had a couple of country roads in the dawn light to navigate by. And the circle itself would surely be hidden to the outside. Not knowing the age of the circle, she had to guess at the amount of continental drift, which meant there was a stretch of land about the size of a Quidditch pitch where it could be centred. Finding the current geometric coordinates, she flew slowly northwest until she found it.

“There!” She pulled back and landed just outside the magical field that revealed the stone circle. The rest of the team landed just behind her. “It’s right in front of us,” she said. “Stay close. We don’t know what traps will be there.”

They walked forward until everyone was inside the enchanted area and could see the circle. Unlike the more symmetrical circle at Hogwarts, this stone circle was much older and resembled a properly-maintained Stonehenge: an outer, fence-like ring of stones surrounding a second ring of smaller rune stones and a lopsided inner ring of five trilithons. They didn’t venture any closer, not knowing what they would find.

“Well, here we are,” Kingsley said.

“Can you find it?” Sirius asked.

“If it’s here,” Hermione said. It was probably _possible_ to block her spell, but luckily, no won knew about it yet. She stepped in front of the group so their presence wouldn’t interfere and waved her wand in a wide arc. _“Atma Prakata.”_

The spell didn’t have as wide a range as _Homenum Revelio_ , but it could be used as an area-of-effect spell. The grass seemed to shimmer as the spell washed over it. In the early morning light, it was possible to see the mass of field mice and insects lit up by the spell. She wasn’t prepared for the sheer number of them. Small as they were, there were so many that they lit up the field like fireflies nearly to the outer ring, and they radiated a feeling of being one with the Earth.

“Whoa,” several people said behind her. She turned and saw Kingsley staring at her.

“You’ve busy, Miss Granger,” he said.

“That’s some deep magic, there,” Sirius said. “I didn’t know you’d come this far.”

“Ha. That was only the first part of you-know-what, Sirius,” she said. “Kingsley? Remus?”

The two Dark Arts experts crept forward, checking for traps. They found nothing as they approached, and halfway to the outer ring, Hermione cast the spell again. The lights appeared going into the ring, but no horcrux. That wasn’t surprising, since it only covered a small part of the ring.

When they reached the outer ring itself, they stopped. “That’s the first trap,” Remus said. “If we cross the outer ring, it’ll be a bad day.”

“Right,” she said. “Keep working on it while I check the circumference. _Atma Prakata_.”

The spell penetrated about halfway to the centre of the circle. Seeing nothing, she moved about thirty degrees counterclockwise and tried again. They’d come up opposite the heelstone, at the “back” of the circle. When she tried the next sector, she again saw nothing but natural life and kept moving. The Weasleys stayed close to protect her. Harry was trailing a bit, but presumably communicating with Ginny if the vacant look on her face was any indication.

It wasn’t until she came to the entrance side of the circle that she saw it. When she cast _Atma Prakata_ , it showed up at the edge of her range: the black mass of evil magic that marked a horcrux—the aura of revulsion that recalled seeing a snake cut in half and writhing on the ground. It wasn’t at the large, altar-like stone in the middle. It was hidden in the blank space, where a sixth trilithon would go if there were one, buried in plain sight.

“There,” she said.

Kingsley and Remus hurried around to her side of the circle and recoiled in horror when they saw the aura of the horcrux.

“That’s some _dark_ magic there,” Kingsley said, shaking his head.

“Definitely a horcrux,” Remus said. “I don’t even need to have seen one before to tell you that.”

“Now we just need to pull it out of the ground somehow,” Hermione said.

“Plus whatever other traps are around it,” Remus added. “I’m sure there’ll be one on the second ring and who knows what around the horcrux itself. We can’t take anything for granted with Rookwood.”

They worked on the wards for a while, disabling or suspending the worst of the traps, scanning and probing for others. Some were secondary traps set to go off ten feet behind the main trap, but they caught them. They conferred with each other for a long time before coming up with a strategy to go forward.

“Okay,” Remus said. “We think we have enough to do it, but once we cross the outer circle, we’ll have to move fast. It has a Catflap Curse on it. If anyone crosses the circle, it’ll try to collapse on them. After that, we can disrupt the curses, but Rookwood designed it to account for that. He put failsafes on the failsafes on the failsafes, and we’ll have to actively counter them to keep some of the curses from activating.”

“What about the second circle?” Hermione said.

“As far as we can tell, more of the same curses, but the second circle is enchanted to morph into rock golems,” Kingsley said. The second circle was made of smaller rune stones as tall as a man. “You’ll have to fight them.”

“It should only be the two closest to you, though,” Remus said. “He can’t move too many at once without disrupting the circle.”

“And the horcrux?” she said.

“Just dig,” Kingsley said. “If you don’t get within the range of it’s direct protections, you should get a clear line of sight without tripping them.”

“Is that all? Rookwood could have done more.”

“He did a lot already,” he replied. “And he probably wasn’t expecting this many people.”

“What about from the air?” Harry suggested. “Would it be easier to go over?”

Kingsley looked up at the row of stones that ringed the top of the outer circle. “No,” he said. “Trust me.”

Ron cleared his throat. “You’ll need at least two more to go in and fight the rock golems,” he said.

“I’ll go,” George said.

Harry and Ginny looked at each other, and Harry said, “I should go.”

“And we’ll have to be between the circles,” Remus said. “We’ll have to run, all between separate stones. There won’t be room otherwise. Best go together so there aren’t any surprises.”

“You’ll have to stay close together,” Ron said. “You don’t want to activate extra golems.”

“We’ve got your back, Hermione,” George said. “Are you two ready?”

Remus and Kingsley nodded. They took their places in front of five of the gaps and got ready to run. “On three,” Kingsley said. “One…two…three!”

Hermione bolted forward, passing through the gap in the stone fence. She jumped as loud thuds sounded behind her as the centre part of the stones above collapsed into the gaps. Once they were through, Harry and George rushed to her side.

“Go!” Remus shouted. He and Kingsley were frantically slashing at the air with their wands, trying to hold the curses at bay. Hermione could feel the dark magic thrumming around her like an electric current, so close to touching her and the others. She, George, and Harry came together and rushed the gap between two of the stones in the second circle.

The standing stones _shifted_. They didn’t self-transfigure. Instead, they changed shape with a grinding sound into crude, troll-like soldiers in a fraction of a second. They took combat stances, and Harry and George immediately opened up with Blasting Curses.

Hermione froze behind them. The flying fists of rock made the gap impassable. She waited for it to widen. The boys tried to force them back, but they put up a tough fight. She waited still, bouncing on the balls of her feet, until she saw an opening that looked large enough. She bolted again. A club of rock came down, and she ducked and rolled. It barely missed her head.

When she stood up, she was through. She was in the interior of the circle. But she wasn’t in the clear yet. The rock golems turned toward her. Not wanting to risk advancing, she snapped off a quick _“Atma Prakata”_ to ascertain the location of the horcrux. Only then did she edge around it, keeping what she hoped was a safe distance, and aimed her wand at the ground.

_Hisssss_ _…_

_“Hermione!”_ Harry yelled.

She turned and her eyes widened. And enormous snake was slithering towards her across the grass at what seemed an impossible speed. It looked like a python until it opened its mouth and displayed huge fangs.

* * *

_Nagini_ _’s here!_

Ginny gasped as she saw the scene through Harry’s eyes. Her own eyes grew to the size of saucers in shock.

“What—?” Ron started to say.

“Nagini’s in there!” she yelled.

_You-Know-Who knows!_

She hated that with the bindings they’d placed on their tongues, even their mental dialogue censored the dark wizard’s name by now.

“And _he_ _’s_ coming!” she added.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” Sirius yelled at once.

“But Hermione’s still working,” Ginny said.

“Fred, help them!” Ron yelled, but Fred was already running to help George and the others. Ginny prayed he’d get there in time. She saw through Harry’s eyes as Hermione was distracted by Nagini, and the three of them inside the circle tried to fend off three foes. Fred ran through the nearest opening of the circle which collapsed with a thud behind him and came up on the fight wand blazing.

 _Stay there,_ Harry told her. The message was more feeling than thought, maybe not even intentional—a split second decision of the mind jumping through several thoughts all at once—crisp and clear, but too fast to put into words. She knew that he wanted her to stay out of the circle and away from the fight—not even a logical choice, since it would be more dangerous out here when You-Know-Who arrived, but it came from his instinctive drive to protect her. She might have let a flash of indignation slip through to him, but she had other reasons to stay out here; she was Harry’s eyes and ears on the _outside_ , just as he was hers on the inside.

“We have to go,” Sirius repeated.

Ginny saw the scene as Harry and the Twins bought Hermione time to keep digging. “They only need a minute.”

“We might not have a minute,” he said, “and they have to get out, too. We’ll be sitting ducks when _he_ shows up.”

“Hang on, I’ve got an idea,” Ron said. “Quick, pick up all the brooms. Ginny, how good’s your Summoning Charm.”

“Summoning Charm?”

 _Summoning Charm?_ Harry thought.

 _Watch yourself!_ she sent to Harry—more a feeling than a thought itself. He had enough on his mind with the battle. He had tunnel vision so much that she had no idea where Hermione was now, even if she was in his line of sight. She only registered flashes of the scene. Harry slashing his wand to throw curse after curse at Nagini, to little effect. A pit opening in the ground where Hermione said the horcrux was. The blinding terror of facing an enemy that was faster and deadlier than himself.

“Summoning Charm,” Ron repeated. “We might need to do it together.”

“Okay?”

_“Harry!” Hermione screamed._

Ginny tensed and focused, taking a split second to assess Harry. Had he been bitten? Struck? But the flash of vision she got was of Hermione tossing something to him. He hefted it up with both hands. It was Snickersnack. Hermione’s sword, which had cut off the head of Fenrir Greyback. She caught a flash of understanding from Harry. Nagini was magic-resistant, but the very physical sword might get through to her.

“Get on the brooms,” Ron said.

“I think I see where you’re going with this,” Sirius said. “He’s right, Ginny. We’ll need speed.”

Harry stumbled as Nagini nearly bit him. Ginny tensed at the sight, her heart pounding in her chest. Harry was starting to shake as their fear fed off of each other, so she tried to push the connection down without closing it entirely.

Mechanically, she mounted her broom and picked up two of the others under one arm, and she took off after Ron. Sirius went off in the other direction.

She felt Harry regain his footing. There were disjointed sounds of more spellfire, then a loud hiss that was suddenly cut off with a _SNICK_. She nearly froze as she saw through Harry’s eyes Nagini’s body going limp as her head was separated from it, and a shriek emanated from the body.

That was it?

Harry turned and joined the Twins in fighting the golems. She hoped they were still okay. Now, they just had to wait for Hermione—and pray that Ron’s plan worked.

* * *

Hermione worked frantically to pull Hufflepuff’s cup up from underground while Harry, George, and Fred fought off the enemies. Nagini was here, which was very bad, until she saw Harry cut the snake’s head off with Snickersnack. The snake’s body writhed on the ground and a black mist rose out of it with a shriek.

She stopped cold. The horcrux was destroyed? What happened?

The battle was still raging. With Nagini dead, she knew they didn’t have long before You-Know-Who came at them full-force. But then she had the cup! Dug out from the ground, it emerged to the surface on a stone pedestal. While it was still behind heavy protections, her spell should cut straight through. She didn’t hesitate.

_“Magrisha Kedavra!”_

Sure enough, the curse cut straight through the dark protections and struck true. The soul fragment was expelled with an identical shriek, and that was that.

“He’s here!” Harry yelled.

_BOOM!_

Hermione reacted on instinct: _“Geodaisia!”_

Her Geodesic Shield went up just before the rubble hit them, forming a dome of magical energy made of triangular panels that kept the stone from falling on them. The two rock golems were completely blown away. She couldn’t see what happened to Remus and Kingsley, let alone the rest of the team.

When the dust cleared, the four of them were huddled in something like a crater, surrounded by shards of rock, the rubble blocking their view. There was a loud crash as the stones of the outer circle began to collapse two by two all the way around. A shimmering bubble partially surrounded the circle like a larger half-dome, its edges glowing red-orange as it evaporated away like burning paper. The ground shook, and waves of magical energy washed over them as the protections broke. You-Know-Who had blown away part of the outer circle—wards that two skilled wizards could barely contain blasted apart in seconds to get to them as fast as possible.

“Four Death Eaters,” Harry hissed urgently. “Ours are clear.” He shot Hermione a pointed look, and she got the message: _Don_ _’t hold back._

She opened her handbag on her hip and pulled out a capsaicin grenade, specifically hung close to the top of the bag in case of an attack. She pulled the pin before even handing it to Harry, and he threw it without hesitating.

“Watch out!”

_BANG!_

“AHH!”

She’d already handed Harry another grenade—a proper explosive one—and he threw it. With her wand she pointed up at an angle and cast, _“Pyr Thalassion!”_ The Greek Fire Curse launched over the barrier and would hopefully splatter fire over the enemy—one of the few spells she’d managed to get to follow a ballistic trajectory _and_ was any use casting blind.

At the same time she cast it, a volley of rocks came flying over the barrier. She remembered You-Know-Who was still trying to kill Harry by indirect means. There was a dizzying series of explosions, flashes of light, and blurs of motion inside and outside the circle, but when it was over, they were still standing. George and Fred had shielded them.

 _“Enough!”_ a sibilant voice shouted. You-Know-Who floated up into their line of sight, hovering high above the ground. He could have cursed them directly, but instead, he gestured with his wand, and the rubble parted like the red sea, revealing the four Death Eaters Harry had mentioned: Bellatrix, Lucius, Rookwood, and a tall one she was pretty sure was Macnair.

“Harry Potter,” You-Know-Who said. “You cannot escape. Surrender yourself to me, and I will let your friends live.”

“Get ready to fly,” Harry whispered.

“Fly? How?” said George.

“You’re a liar, Tom!” Harry taunted.

_What is he doing?_

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_“Expelliarmus!”_

_“Crucio!”_

_“Sectumsempra!”_

_“Protego!”_

_“Dridristraub!_

_“Carnifex!”_

_“Viscera Expellite!”_

_“Reducto!”_

What seemed like a dozen spells flew at once. You-Know-Who had momentarily let his anger run away with him and cast directly at Harry. Harry’s spell connected with his, and a golden cord formed between their wands, but You-Know-Who shook off the connection immediately. He swirled his wand and the rocks began rattling. Hermione felt an intense heat wash over them. He was trying to _melt_ the rocks! And she wouldn’t put it past him to do it bloody fast. Yet the only way out was forward, and that was suicide.

Harry charged.

Hermione didn’t have any idea what he was doing, but she followed his lead. She could hear burning grass and shifting rocks behind her. If she didn’t want to be ankle-deep in lava, it was the only choice. George and Fred were right behind them, Shield Charms ahead like a battering ram, but she had her own shield in mind.

_“Semipermeare!”_

It wasn’t particularly strong, but it had one particularly useful property: unlike most shield charms, it would allow physical objects to pass through in one direction. She pulled another device out of her handbag and flipped a runic switch on it. If they were going down, she was taking one person in particular with her.

She aimed the magical gun straight at Rookwood and pulled the trigger. Fully-automatic, very high speed, recoil stabilised, silenced—at the price of completely burning out the runes with those settings. Thirty rounds fired in three seconds. Rookwood’s Shield Charm stopped the first ten. The next ten tore into his chest, his throat, and then his head.

And the last ten rounds went over his head because she found herself flying up into the air and in a lot of pain.

Hermione wasn’t lifted herself. Rather, it was her clothes. She was wrenched upward by her coat and her trousers so hard that she was afraid her arms would tear out of their sockets, and she might break her tailbone, not to mention the whiplash. The wind whipped around her. She hadn’t just been levitated. She was being pulled, and pulled fast. The gun caught fire, and she dropped it. You-Know-Who was screaming far behind her. She could barely hear it over her own screams. She was rattled to her bones as she swerved through the air at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. Spells were flying past her, many of them deathly green. She was sure she was going to die until she saw a broom looming above her, and a large, black hand clasped around her own.

“Kingsley?!” Hermione called. He pulled her up onto the broom, and she wrapped her arms tight around his waist and closed her eyes tight. “How?”

“I’m not sure myself, Miss Granger,” he shouted over the wind.

“Potter!”

You-Know-Who was airborne. The other Death Eaters may have been left behind, but he was dangerous enough on his own with his flight. A hot wind whipped around them. Hermione shook as she looked around. She saw Harry alone on a broom with You-Know-Who chasing him. Several other Order members spun around him, but they couldn’t get close.

“Miss Granger!” Kingsley said, and he thrust another broom into her hands.

She glanced at Harry one more time. “Oh, I _hate_ flying,” she muttered to herself. She flailed as she tried to hop off of Kingsley’s broom and mount her own without spinning out of control and crashing. Against her instincts, she flew towards Harry and You-Know-Who and wracked her brain. Did she have any other tricks up her sleeve? She could Apparate Harry straight up like she had Mrs. Clarke, but that meant she had to get close enough to grab him.

Or did it?

_“Accio!”_

Hermione threw as much power as she could into the spell and let it pull her and Harry together while they were still racing forward at top speed. The brooms were not top production models, so You-Know-Who was able to keep pace, but it got her to Harry faster and cleaner than if she’d tried to swoop in to his line of flight.

Fire blossomed from You-Know-Who’s wand—a roiling, unnaturally red thing that seemed to take shape of its own accord as some kind of great, flying beast. _Fiendfyre!_ It flew at an impossible speed. It was nearly on them when Hermione reached out Harry’s hand and did what was probably the fastest and riskiest Apparition she’d ever done.

A moment later, her ears popped, and the air was blown from her lungs as they reappeared two miles above the fight.

Harry gasped and screamed at the pressure change: “ARGH! What the hell?”

“Apparated straight up,” she said. “It was the only thing I could think of. Hold on.” She pointed her wand down and cast, _“Arresto Momentum!”_

Their fall slowed, and the whipping wind around them calmed—but only partly. Looking down, Hermione saw a growing red flame surrounded by a tornado, and growing in size. The Fiendfyre was racing up to catch them—and it was bloody fast, too. But not fast enough. Hermione pulled Harry into a hug—safer than way—and Apparated them both directly back to the campsite.

She collapsed on the ground and looked over her body, patting herself down to make sure she hadn’t lost anything in the chaos. She was pretty sure she hadn’t, which was a miracle in itself, but she did notice she was sans shoes and socks, not to mention her broom, which was not a good sign. Everything else was still there, though.

“Harry, are you okay—oh!” she squeaked.

“AHGH!” Harry had collapsed on the ground, clutching his feet. They were bloody.

“Oh, God! Harry!” She crawled over to him in a panic and syphoned away the blood with her wand.

All ten of Harry’s toenails were missing.

“Harry, I’m so sorry!” she cried. “What about your fingers?” His fingernails were fine, luckily. “Are you…okay?” she stammered. “Did you lose anything else besides your…” She trailed off.

“What?” he said worriedly.

She pointed to his head, and he finally noticed what she had the first time: Harry was completely bald. Even his eyebrows were gone.

“Any other body parts…?” she tried again before her voice fled from her.

Harry tensed and started patting himself down the same as she had. He awkwardly turned around on his knees, and she heard a zip. He sighed with relief. “No, that was all.”

_Pop! Pop!_

Hermione spun and drew her wand, but Harry didn’t. It was George and Ginny. He must have seen Ginny coming. She didn’t say a word before she tackled Harry in a hug. George, however, stumbled at the sight of him. “Harry! What happened.”

“Splinched,” Hermione said, and she finally took a moment to draw a full breath. “Luckily, it was just his hair and toenails. It could’ve been so much worse.” She shivered. “He’s lucky I didn’t cut him in half with that stunt, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

George patted her shoulder. “You got him away safe, Hermione,” he said. “That’s the important thing.”

She nodded uncomfortably. “You two…?”

“We’re okay. The others were fine last we saw. Oh, and I saved your sword.”

Hermione blushed and carefully took Snickersnack back when he held it out to her, replacing it in its scabbard.

“Harry, mate, you gonna be okay?” George said.

Harry winced. “Wish I could get to a Healer for my feet,” he groaned. “Reckon I’ll be able to walk in a couple days, though. And my hair’ll probably grow back by tomorrow.”

“Oh? Is there a spell for that?” Hermione asked.

“No, but I regrew it overnight before when I was eight,” he said. “It always seems to stay the same length, you know? Sirius says it’s a Potter thing.”

“Well, that’s good. Ginny, I’m so sorry—”

“It’s okay,” she said. “He’s alive. And we got the horcrux—We got _both_ of the horcruxes,” she corrected, smiling. “That’s all of them, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” Hermione started to smile, too, and the weight of it hit her. “Yeah, that’s all of them.”

“You-Know-Who’s mortal,” Harry said. “He can die now—properly _die_.”

“Bloody hell, a Killing Curse would’ve put him down for good,” George said.

“Sure, but could any of us cast it?” Hermione said. “Besides, he was too fast to hit, he could summon a hurricane and lava from nowhere, and he nearly killed us twice with Fiendfyre. He would’ve picked us off before we could hit him.”

There was silence for a minute. “So what’s next?” Ginny said. “How can we take him down if he’s so powerful?”

“I have some ideas,” Hermione said. “First, we need to get hold of Kingsley again and check on the others. Then, we’ll need to talk to McGonagall.”

* * *

“I think I’ve lost track of how many miracles we’ve had today,” Kingsley told the group when they reassembled at their meeting place. “Everyone on the raid made it out alive, and without life-threatening injuries.”

It was true. Hermione and Harry had sagged with relief when they saw the others, and the Weasleys almost cheered.

“So that’s it,” Harry said. “We got all the horcruxes.”

“It would appear so, if your information was accurate,” Kingsley replied.

“I’m surprised cutting off Nagini’s head worked,” Hermione said. “My sword isn’t magical—or at least it doesn’t have any offensive magic.”

Most of the group shrugged, but Sirius spoke up: “We know to destroy a horcrux, it has to be damaged beyond repair, right? Unless you use your spell, Hermione. But a living horcrux can still suffer injury and illness—at least Harry could. It’s…it’s not indestructible like a regular horcrux is, so maybe killing it counts.”

“Except Harry wasn’t a proper horcrux,” Hermione pointed out. “Although I suppose I can’t argue with the results.”

“And You-Know-Who made a mistake like that?” said Ginny.

She thought for a moment: “Hmm, I’m guessing even he didn’t really know what would happen. For someone so afraid of death, he’s been surprisingly cavalier about how he handled his soul pieces. You know—the diary.”

Ginny shuddered briefly, but she nodded. Harry put his arm around her shoulders. “Well, you’re right about one thing, Kingsley,” she said. “It was a bloody miracle we all got out of there.”

“We used a lot of tricks they weren’t expecting,” Kingsley said. “I wouldn’t expect your plan to work again, Ronald. Or yours, Miss Granger.”

“What _did_ you do, exactly?” Hermione turned to Ron.

“Kingsley said it,” Ron said proudly. “You-Know-Who wasn’t expecting that many people to be there. It makes sense he’d only be expecting a couple of us to go after the horcrux ‘cause we’d want to play it close to the vest.”

“Which we did until that mission,” Hermione pointed out.

“Right. So I had us pick up the brooms so he wouldn’t think there were more of us and we flew away from the circle. Then, when he smashed the wards, we flew in and picked up Remus and Kingsley, and then the rest of you. Course, I reckon it wouldn’t’ve work if Ginny hadn’t known where Harry was and what was going on.”

“And Harry knew what she was doing and could warn us,” Hermione added.

“And because You-Know-Who isn’t trying to curse Harry directly,” Ginny said.

“I’m just glad I could do _something_ ,” Harry muttered. “I feel like you’re doing so much more than I am.”

“That’s because you’re spending half of every fight fending off You-Know-Who,” Hermione said. “There’s not much we can do but retreat when he shows up. I still don’t know how he’s that powerful. It sounds awful to say, but even just you distracting him helps the rest of us a lot. And besides, this time, your connection with Ginny saved us all.”

“Yep, never doubted you, Harry,” Fred said.

“Uh huh. I think it’s safe to say teaming up with Ginny was a definite improvement,” George agreed. Ginny gave him a mock glare, and he moved on: “Okay, next order of business: did you see what Hermione did to Rookwood?”

Hermione blushed.

“Oh, yeah,” Harry said. “You built a bloody _machine gun?_ ”

“Not a very good one,” she said. “It burned out almost instantly.”

“A what?” Kingsley asked.

“A muggle gun that shoots very fast. Rookwood won’t be coming back from _that_.” She thought on that a moment more and smiled. “And that means I don’t have to hold back anymore.”

“You mean you’ve been holding back?” Ginny said in alarm.

George looped an arm around her shoulders. “All in a day’s work for the Great Arithmancer, eh?” he said.

Hermione chuckled darkly. She definitely had more to work with, and once they talked to McGonagall, she would start putting it into motion. “Archimedes,” she said. “It’s Lady Archimedes.”

* * *

Minerva McGonagall had just got back to her office from her last class of the day, debating whether to lock the door and have herself a good cry. Things were getting bleaker every day at Hogwarts. She’d thought things couldn’t get any worse when those bastard Carrows and Crouch started torturing eleven-year-old children. At least Severus had abstained, although she no longer remotely trusted his loyalty given that he had refused to do anything about it.

But that was far from the lowest the Death Eaters could descend as they grew more and more aggressive about trying to force the children to torture _each other_. For a time, there had been an uneasy cease-fire between them and the seventh-years and Filius, which staved it off, but eventually, they lost all restraint.

That was five weeks ago, when Neville Longbottom straight-up _vanished_. Minerva hadn’t taken him to be the type to run away, and there hadn’t been any rumours of Snatchers hunting for him outside the castle. Indeed, her other students seemed to think he was still around, but had hidden so deep in the castle that even the staff couldn’t find him.

A week later, Megan Jones and Michael Corner also disappeared. The Death Eaters grew more paranoid, but the disappearances only accelerated. Every day, another student vanished, sometimes two, as the Carrows grew ever harsher on those who remained. Astoria Greengrass might well be dead by now. After Amycus Carrow had pushed the sickly girl too far in detention, she’d fainted, and Poppy hadn’t been allowed to see to her. And yet, somehow, they couldn’t find a body, so Minerva hoped she was still alive with her other students.

She had a strong suspicion that “Dumbledore’s Army” was behind this somehow. The seventh-year rolls nearly emptied, and the sixth-year rolls and even some younger students weren’t far behind. Georgina Vector, a fourth-year and a Slytherin at that, hadn’t been seen for nearly three weeks. This past week, her N.E.W.T. classes had been more Slytherins than the rest of the houses put together, and with those who remained being so outnumbered, she despaired of her ability to protect them.

She’d heard rumours of another fight this morning in the south of England—whispers that Potter himself had been there—but she didn’t put much stock in rumours anymore. There hadn’t been any confirmed sightings of Potter in three months. Kingsley had relayed to her that he was alive, but he naturally wouldn’t tell her anything else. Here at Hogwarts, it seemed like there was no end in sight.

Minerva poured herself a large mug of soothing tea. No brandy. She couldn’t risk turning to drink in times like these. Then, she sat at her desk and debated with herself for the tenth time whether it was worth it to bother grading her papers. At this rate there wouldn’t be much point in even giving the end-of-year exams.

She was just settled in and trying to relax when she felt an unusual spell wash over her from the door: a Presence-Detection Spell.

Minvera was on her feet at once, her wand out. “Who is there?” she demanded. “Show yourself!”

Nothing could have prepared her for the shock of Neville Longbottom hurriedly stepping into her office. Her eyes widened, and she flicked her wand to shut and lock the door behind him. “Mr. Longbottom!” she exclaimed. “What? How—?” She stopped as her wits caught up with her. “What was the last thing Neville Longbottom said to me alone before he disappeared?” she asked.

Longbottom’s eyebrows shot up, and she belatedly remembered the boy’s faulty memory. She feared he might not remember even if he was the real one. But he concentrated for a minute and answered, “Er, it was something close to, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do, Professor, but I’m not going to sell my soul even to fake it.’ …Also, Hermione says passwords are better.”

Minerva lowered her wand. She remembered Longbottom’s bold words before his final “detention.” Spoken like a true Gryffindor. “Well, you _are_ a sight for sore eyes, Mr. Longbottom,” she said. “Where on Earth have you been? Where have _all_ of the students been?”

“In the Room of Requirement, Professor,” he answered.

“The Room of Requirement? But don’t the Death Eaters know about that?”

“Sure, but I figured out how to get the entrance to move months ago so they can’t find it again. And I figured out how to tell it to keep the Death Eaters out before that.”

Minerva goggled. Was this truly the same boy who’s stumbled off the stool forgetting to take the Sorting Hat off his head seven years ago? “Mr. Longbottom, never let anyone tell you you are unintelligent,” she said. “What are you doing here if you’ve been hiding out for so long?”

Longbottom held up a mirror. “Because _they_ asked to talk to you, ma’am.”

She saw the faces in the enchanted mirror and gasped. “Miss Granger! Mr…Mr. Potter, is that you?” she stammered. The boy’s emerald-green eyes and lightning bolt scar looked as familiar as the day she saw him as a too-thin first-year, but his hair was cropped so short that it looked like what muggle-born students called a “buzz cut.” She had never in her life seen a Potter with tidy hair.

“Yeah, it’s me, Professor,” Potter said. “Got splinched, but I’ll be alright.”

“Goodness! How _are_ you? None of us have heard anything for months!”

“We’re doing well, Professor,” Granger said. “Very well, in fact.”

That was a surprise. “I’ve heard rumours today,” Minerva said. “The fight this morning?”

“That was us,” Potter said. “We all made it out alive.”

“Harry lost his toenails, though,” another voice said from out of view.

“Miss Weasley?” she asked.

“Hi, Professor,” the girl called.

“Listen, Professor,” Granger said seriously. “We’ve been in hiding because we’ve been finishing the job Dumbledore gave us.”

“So you _are_ working on Dumbledore’s orders?” Minerva said hopefully.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Potter took over again: “The short version is, You-Know-Who set up failsafes to keep himself from being killed. We finally destroyed the last two of them this morning. He can die properly now.”

“Also, Hermione killed Rookwood,” Ginny added.

Minerva’s eyes widened, and she saw Granger’s face turn pink. She looked uncomfortable, so Minerva decided not to question her about it. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.

Granger explained: “The problem is, You-Know-Who is so powerful that I don’t know if we can face him head-on. Now…this is going to sound mental because you’ve been out of the loop for so long, but bear with me. I’ve been working on a ritual that I believe will be able to kill You-Know-Who at a distance where he can’t get to us.”

Minerva stared. Granger was delving into ritual magic? That deep into ritual magic? If Granger was right (and Minerva would put down good money that she was), that sounded like one of the really scary rituals you only heard about in old stories.

“The trouble is, we’d have to be at the Anchor Stones of Hogwarts to cast it,” Granger went on, “and it will take time to set up.”

“We want to coordinate with you and Professor Babbling about putting it together so we can get in and do it fast when it’s ready,” Potter added.

Neville was just as speechless as Minerva was. Potter and Granger apparently had not told him this bit. They were delving into magics where Albus would hesitate to tread. “I won’t bother telling you how dangerous ritual magic is in general,” she told them. “But a ritual like this—how dangerous will it be to Hogwarts to cast it, Miss Granger? Especially if it should fail?”

“To the casters, extremely,” she said without hesitation. “But to bystanders? Not very, as long as they stay away from the Lake.”

 _Stay away from the Lake?_ She shook her head and didn’t question it. “And how confident are you that this ritual can succeed?”

Granger shrugged her shoulders: “Confident enough that I’m suggesting this first over a direct assault…or stealing a muggle attack helicopter.”

Minerva was still digesting that last statement when there was a pounding on the door.

“Minerva, you will open this door at once!” Severus called loudly.

Longbottom and the pair in the mirror started. Minerva turned to him and thought fast. She flicked her wand and incanted, _“Non Illudere.”_ She motioned for the disillusioned boy to hide in the corner and opened the door. “Severus,” she said.

Severus stomped into the room and sealed the door behind him. Anger was radiating from him, and she pointed her wand at his heart, fearing that he’d finally shown his true colours. But to her surprise, he lowered his own wand, though he looked no less furious. “Minerva, we have a problem,” he said. “The Dark Lord is coming.”

“What?”

_“Here.”_

“Here?” she gasped, “but why?”

 _“Potter,”_ he snarled. “I don’t know what you heard, but there was a battle this morning in Somerset. Potter killed the Dark Lord’s pet snake.”

“His snake? Was that—?” she started, but she stopped herself before she could reveal anything incriminating.

“If you are referring to the tasks Dumbledore set for Potter, yes, the snake was one of them.”

“You know?”

“Naturally. Dumbledore entrusted me with the knowledge as a backup plan in case Potter failed—though by that point, we would be in dire straits indeed.”

 _Albus trusted you that much?_ Minerva thought. She always trusted Albus’s judgement in life, but telling Severus of the full plan smacked of foolhardiness, and she didn’t think she would ever understand whence that trust came. “But why is he coming _here?_ ” she asked, dreading the answer.

“I was only told that he was coming to ‘inspect the castle,’ but reading between the lines, I suspect that he wishes to retrieve one of the _items_ from here.”

Minerva paled. “And if he should find that the… _item_ is no longer here?”

He raised an eyebrow at her with that deadly stare of his that made students from all seven years cower in fear. “Is it?”

She took a deep breath. “It’s gone,” she said. “I’ve heard from a reliable source, they’re _all_ gone.”

Severus tried to school his expression, but she could see emotions playing over his face. Shock, fear…triumph? When he calmed himself, he spoke deliberately: “Then that would be very bad. I fear should the Dark Lord discover this, he would slaughter a large portion of the residents of the castle in a blind rage. I have heard whispers this day that he is amassing his forces, though that seemed inconsistent with what I was told directly until now. You should tell your…” His gaze scanned the room. “…‘reliable source.’”

“How long do we have, Severus?”

“He told me seven o’clock…so it will most likely be six.”

She felt her hands start to shake. “I’ll tell them,” she whispered. “You should…prepare.”

Severus left the room, and she collapsed into her chair.

“Professor!” Longbottom stumbled forward, the Disillusionment Charm breaking, and he held the mirror out to her. Minerva steadied her trembling hands and put on a brave face for her students.

“Okay, new plan,” Potter said gravely. “We have to stop him from getting into Hogwarts.”

“And how do you propose we do that, Mr. Potter?” she asked. “We have forty-five minutes unless we are most lucky.”

He turned to his friends: “Hermione, would you be able to set up that ritual now?”

Granger closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’ll need to think for a minute,” she said. She looked back at the mirror and said, “Professor, Neville, I think it’s time I showed you my secret weapon.” She stood and left the view for a few moments and came back wearing a distinctive tiara on her head. And Minerva almost didn’t notice that at first because of the sudden change that had come over the girl. Her eyes were wide, and her pupils dilated. The expression on her face was so much more intense—so much more _dangerous_ —that she looked almost like a different person. Her whole demeanour was tense, and she was twitching minutely. It was then that Minerva remembered where she had seen that diamond tiara before.

“Miss Granger…” she said. “Is that…the Lost Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw?” she said.

“Yes,” she answered. “It was one of _his_ safeguards. _Mine_ , now.”

“The legends are true, then?” The diadem was said to increase the wearer’s intelligence. If _that_ was Granger’s secret weapon, then it was an unimaginably powerful weapon in her hands.

“In a sense,” she answered curtly. “It makes me think faster. Gives me photographic memory. But it has its downsides. The ritual…” She closed her eyes in thought. “We’d have to get to the castle and start setting it up before _he_ gets there,” she said. “We’ll have to hold him off, and we won’t have much time. If it’s not ready by sunrise, it’ll do more harm than good…But yes, it’s possible.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do,” Potter said. “We have to stop You-Know-Who from getting into Hogwarts. This is the only way. We’ll have to rally the troops. Neville, how big is the D.A. now?”

“Pretty big,” he said. “Twice the size it was when you were here.”

“That’s got to be most of fifth year and up outside of Slytherin,” Hermione said.

“It is.”

“And most of them have vanished from the halls,” Minerva added.

“We’re all hiding in the Room of Requirement.”

“Then it’s time to come out,” Potter ordered. “Storm the castle, and take down the Death Eaters—teachers and students. Clear the way for us.”

“The rest of the teachers are on your side, Potter,” Minerva said, sitting straighter. “Tell us what you need.”

“Just take control of the castle before we get there.” He turned to Granger. “You _can_ get us there in time, right?”

“I’ll have to call Kingsley back for a Portkey. Yes, I can get us there.”

“But how?” Longbottom said. “They’re guarding Hogsmeade and the Forest.”

Granger smiled a smile that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a goblin. “That’s the _other_ thing I learnt from my geomancy discussions with Professor Babbling,” she said. “I know how to get through the Unplottability Ward…I know how to get to Hogwarts overland.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geodaisia: Greek for “division of the Earth,” the origin of the word “geodesic.”
> 
> Pyr Thalassion: one of the original Byzantine names for Greek Fire, literally meaning “sea fire.”
> 
> Semipermeare: stylised from the Latin for “half be passed through.”
> 
> And here…we…go.
> 
> Current status: Seven chapters left. I have the end of the story lined up for Chapter 82, although that’s probably plus or minus one chapter depending on how choreographing the actual battle goes.


	76. Chapter 76

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: It ends tonight…Or six weeks from now. Only JK Rowling knows…or something.
> 
> Part of this chapter is quoted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
> 
> Credit to objectivepersona for suggesting I show Neville’s speech to the D.A.—even though I took a very different direction with it.

_IT_ _’S TIME. HOGWARTS. IT ENDS TONIGHT._

That message was passed from ring to ring on the hands of the members of the Order of the Phoenix all across the British Isles as the sun sank in the west before the beginning of Walpurgis Night. That was the message that Neville Longbottom carried to Dumbledore’s Army, telling them that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger were coming to finish the job. And that was the message that Hermione took to Kingsley with Harry, Ginny, and George, along with one additional message.

“We need a Portkey, and we need one fast.”

* * *

It was possible to make a Portkey solely with geographic coordinates. Indeed, for international Portkeys, it was often necessary to do so. The coordinates Hermione gave Kingsley were 58 degrees, 16 minutes, and 58 seconds north latitude, 5 degrees, 7 minutes, and 20 seconds west longitude. Those weren’t the coordinates of Hogwarts. The Anti-Portkey Wards would block it. They instead landed six miles due west on a hill near a rocky shoreline facing the Hebrides. The Portkey would be detected, but at this point, it didn’t matter.

She had been surprised when she calculated the location of Hogwarts to find it was much farther to the northwest of Scotland than she’d expected, but in retrospect, in made sense. It was situated in Sutherland County: two thousand square miles with only twelve thousand people in it. She suspected that Hogsmeade was the largest village in the entire county, and the muggles were totally unaware.

In addition to the Portkey, they had recovered four brooms from Kingsley to make the flight. Since they only had to fly six miles, they would be able to get there fast and without going off course. They flew over rocky hills and small lochs and streams and even a few muggle roads as they approached. Soon, the landscape began to distort around them as they approached the edge of the Unplottability Ward. Using the Point Me Charm to find true north, they kept going even as the wards tried to turn them aside to the right or to the left until they were through into the greener land surrounding Hogwarts.

There was silence for several seconds, and then they heard the distant scream of the Caterwauling Charm. Hermione wasn’t overly worried. The Death Eaters were patrolling Hogsmeade and the forests, but they were coming up on the Lake side of the castle, and they would be in before anyone got close enough to stop them.

“What do you think?” George called. “Big entrance?”

* * *

Neville wished he could say he’d made a rousing speech to Dumbledore’s Army before their attack. The truth was, there just wasn’t time. He wasn’t a superb speaker to start with, but when you had only half an hour to rally the troops and take over the castle, your speech was more or less limited to:

_“Guys! Guys! Get up! Everybody up! We have to move! Harry has a mission for us. Now. He says it’s time. Harry’s coming here, and he needs us to take over the castle from the Death Eaters before he gets here. We’re making a stand at Hogwarts!”_

He hadn’t even told them that You-Know-Who was already on his way, although it was implied. They had enough to worry about as it was. Now, they were in control, or very near it. McGonagall and, oddly, Snape had helped by ordering everyone to the Great Hall, where the D.A. could take them all down at once.

It wasn’t without casualties. Terry Boot was lying dead on the floor—the first death of the night, and Professor Babbling was moaning in pain as Madam Pomfrey tried to repair a dark curse that Barty Crouch Jr had hit her with. On the other side, Amycus Carrow was also dead, at the hands of Michael Corner. Alecto and all of the Slytherins who had opposed them were stunned and restrained, but Barty Jr had fled out the window, and one other had vanished and was still unaccounted for.

“Where’s Snape?” Neville asked as he walked the length of the Great Hall, scanning the faces in the crowd.

“Right here, Mr. Longbottom.”

Neville spun and cast a Slicing Hex on general principle, but Snape shielded it and several other curses thrown his way.

“Use your brain for once and desist, Longbottom,” Snape sneered. To Neville’s surprise, he didn’t attack, but stood there in the doorway to the Entrance Hall.

“P-professor McGonagall?” he called.

McGonagall hurried to his side, but she looked just as dumbfounded. “Severus?” she asked.

“Did you really think Albus’s trust was misplaced, Minerva?” he said. “Although I will confess to the indiscretion of placing a Listening Charm on your office. Since this will be over by dawn one way or the other, I would say my deception is no longer required.”

Neville’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Professor Snape is a double agent, Mr. Longbottom,” McGonagall said. “Dumbledore always trusted him, but…Prove it, Severus,” she shouted.

“Excuse me?” Snape said, raising an eyebrow.

“Dumbledore must have had some ironclad evidence from you,” she said. “I’m not as trusting as he was. I want you to prove it!”

Snape glared at her and raised his wand. Neville tensed and raised his own, but then he saw the spell Snape cast.

_“Expecto Patronum.”_

If you’d asked Neville, he would have thought Snape incapable of casting a Patronus, and if he were, he would have expected a bat or a snake or some other unpleasant creature. Most of the Great Hall couldn’t see that far into the Entrance Hall from that angle, so he didn’t think anyone would believe him when he told them the silver light formed into…a doe?

McGongall’s eyes widened, and she lowered her wand. “He’s in the clear, Mr. Longbottom,” she said. “And where on Earth were you, Severus? You vanished for the entire fight. Mr. Boot is _dead_.”

“I merely wished to retrieve the two people in this castle who were not safe with the rest of the school,” Snape said evenly.

It was then that Neville heard a baby cry.

The entire Great Hall stopped behind them. It was so rare for a baby to be in Hogwarts for any reason that it was practically unheard of. A woman stepped out of the shadows and forward into the Great Hall, carrying the child in her arms. She wasn’t unattractive, but she was in bad shape. Her body was almost limp, with dead eyes and prematurely greying hair, and she walked forward in a daze as if she were sleepwalking. Neville, remembering his discussions at the start of the year, understood at once.

“Bertha Jorkins,” he whispered.

“Indeed,” Snape said. “Who has unfortunately laboured some four years under the Imperius Curse of Barty Crouch Jr.”

Everyone just stared. _I_ _’m sorry,_ Neville thought.

But they got everyone sorted the best they could in a few minutes. Bertha Jorkins would need professional help, but there was nothing they could do for her tonight. It was then that the front doors of the Entrance Hall opened, and Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, and George and Ginny Weasley stepped inside and strode forward like a royal procession.

“Harry! It’s Harry!”

“Hermione’s here!”

“We’re safe!”

“Ginny! You’re alive!”

“It’s Fred!”

“No, it’s George!”

“Where’s the other one?”

The foursome made their way through the crowd with difficulty. Harry’s hair was still weirdly short—so short as to be barely recognisable as his natural black. Harry in particular shrugged off his adoring fans with visible annoyance. Neville had noticed something even more unexpected when they stepped into the light: Ginny now had an identical lightning scar on her forehead to Harry’s. What the hell was _that_ about? But there was no time to ask, and most of the school was school preoccupied by what was still on _Hermione_ _’s_ head.

“Bloody hell?”

“Is that Ravenclaw’s diadem?”

“It is! It has to be!”

“But how?”

“ _Granger_ has it?”

The four kept walking without speaking, no one willing to challenge them directly. George and Ginny waved to the crowd, but Harry didn’t react, and Hermione had that same look of intense focus on her face as before so that Neville wasn’t certain she even noticed.

“It’s good to see you back, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall told Harry. Neville thought she might cry.

Harry stopped in front of her. “I just wish it were better circumstances, Professor,” he said. “What’s the situation?”

“I’m afraid Terry Boot didn’t make it,” she told him matter-of-factly. “Amycus Carrow is dead, and the rest of the Death Eaters are restrained, save that Barty Crouch escaped. I’ve sent a Patronus to Hagrid. He and his brother should be within running distance.”

Harry nodded to her, and he ascended the dais and stood in front of the High Table. He raised his hand, and the crowd quieted down at once. It was almost eerie how eager they were to hear him. “Okay, listen, everyone,” he called out to the crowd. He scanned the room and noticed Snape. “What’s _he_ doing here?”

“I will vouch for him, Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said. “He is on our side.”

Harry stared at Snape and then McGonagall for a minute before returning to his speech. “Alright. So…I guess, first I want to thank you all for keeping up the good fight—and especially to Dumbledore’s Army—” The D.A. cheered. “It would’ve been a lot harder if we had to fight for the school. I know it’s been a hard year at Hogwarts. It’s been hard for us too. Oh, and don’t worry about the hair. It’ll grow back soon,” he added, pointing to his head and partly breaking the tension.

“I know you’re all been wondering what we’ve been doing the past few months. The truth is, for the past year and a half—since the night Dumbledore died, in fact—we’ve been completing a series of tasks that he gave us—to set things up to take down You-Know-Who for good. One of those tasks was finding Ravenclaw’s lost diadem.” Harry motioned to Hermione here. “And you have no idea how big a help it’s been. We finally finished those tasks this morning. We have a plan to take him down, but he’s forced our hand before we’re quite ready.”

Harry took a deep breath and watched the eager crowd carefully. “The bad news is, You-Know-Who is—” he stopped and turned to Hermione. “Hermione, can you undo the tongue-binding ritual?”

Whispers rippled through the crowd, but Hermione rolled her eyes. “One ritual at a time, Harry,” she said.

“Ugh. Fine. _Riddle_ , then. His name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. Rearrange the letters, and you’ll see where he got his new name. The point is, Riddle—You-Know-Who—is coming _here_. _Tonight_.”

Neville winced as many of his school-mates screamed in terror, especially the younger ones. Harry raised his hands again. He’d have to act fast to keep control of the crowd. He didn’t quite have Dumbledore’s presence, but he could make it work in a pinch. “HEY!” he yelled. “Riddle is coming here. He’ll probably be here within the hour, and if he gets into Hogwarts…well, it’ll be bad. So we’re not going to _let_ him get in!”

Some of the older students cheered weakly. “We’ve called in all of fighters for the Light we can,” he continued. “They’re coming here now. Some of them are here already.” He motioned to the Entrance Hall, where Neville was surprised to see several more Weasleys, Aberforth Dumbledore, and Hestia Jones walking into the castle. “We’re going to hold the castle against Riddle’s army.” Strange how You-Know-Who sounded so much less scary when you gave him a normal name. Harry motioned to Hermione again. “Hermione has developed a powerful magic ritual that will destroy Riddle permanently, but she needs time to set it up. We have to give her that time. Hermione?”

Hermione stepped up beside Harry. “Bathsheda Babbling, and the seventh-year Ancient Runes class, step forward,” she ordered.

Professor Babbling staggered to her feet, and about a dozen students came forward to stand by her side.

“Professor, what happened to you?” Hermione asked.

“Crouch got me,” she said. “Some kind of necrotising curse. It’s contained for a little while, but I need to get to St. Mungo’s.”

“Are you good to do rune work?”

“If I have to.”

Hermione handed her a sheaf parchment, and Babbling paled even further as she looked through it. “Miss Granger—” she started.

“It needs to be done before sunrise,” Hermione cut her off.

“But—”

Hermione spoke over her, raising her voice to the crowd again: “Professor Babbling and as many of her students as we can spare will carve the runes into the Anchor Stones. It has to be done before sunrise. That means we have to hold the castle until then.”

Harry took over again. “We have to hold Hogwarts until sunrise. With the wards of Hogwarts, I know we can do it. I’ve seen what you can do, and I’m proud to serve with every one of you. We _will_ do it. This ends tonight.”

On impulse, Neville stepped up and raised his wand in the air. “For Hogwarts!” he shouted.

 _“For Hogwarts!”_ The D.A. shouted in reply.

* * *

The Order of the Phoenix arrived by a number of routes. Some came by broom through the Portkey route Hermione had described. Most dropped what they were doing and Apparated straight into Hogsmeade. The Caterwauling Charm could be heard screaming for miles, but there were so many Order members and trusted allies of Order members Apparating in at once that they overwhelmed the patrols, Death Eaters, Snatchers, and dementors alike. It didn’t hurt that Voldemort was in the middle of amassing his army. A few of the Order flew by broom from there, but most took a different route.

The thestral herd had been relocated to the carriage stand in Hogsmeade to keep the students from escaping, and the Order commandeered it and drove the carriages to the school as fast as the thestrals could pull them without shaking apart. To those who could see thestrals—sadly many these days—it looked as if the devil himself was driving to the school at the head of a demonic procession. Ironic that these were the soldiers of the Light.

* * *

Harry stumbled as soon as the eyes of the crowd were no longer focused on him. “Madam Pomfrey?” he groaned and waved down the Mediwitch,

A harried-looking Madam Pomfrey came over to him. “What is it now, Mr. Potter?” she said.

“I splinched my toenails this morning,” Harry told her. “Having a bit of trouble walking. And I’m sorry to be pushy, but just give me something that’ll keep me on my feet till dawn, and then if we’re still alive, you can have me.”

Pomfrey sighed: “If we’re still alive, I alive a feeling I won’t have a choice, Potter. I’ll go get you something.” She hurried off to her office.

Hermione strode forward quickly beside McGonagall as she walked to the front of the Entrance Hall. The Order were gathering around them, and the Weasleys especially stayed close by. “As soon as the full Order gets here, we’ll have to lock down the castle and activate all of the defensive wards,” she said.

“But what of the students?” McGonagall said. “We have to get them to safety.”

Harry shook his head. “I…I don’t think there’s time, Professor. You-Know— _Riddle_ is already on his way with his army. There’s no time to evacuate the school. Even if we could open up a passage to Hogsmeade, the place’ll be crawling with Death Eaters soon. We can’t send hundreds of kids through there in time. We’ll just be handing them hostages.”

“And if we leave them here, in danger, Mr. Potter?” she pressed.

“It’s still safer than trying to get them out,” he said.

Hermione considered the problem. It wasn’t easy. She was riding the edge of a breakdown with the diadem on, and she was almost at the point taking it off, but her intense focus on the coming battle kept her together. She thought about defending the castle and everything she knew about its layout, and a thought came to her.

“Professor, I have an idea,” she said. “We can send all the younger students down to the kitchens.”

“The kitchens?” McGonagall said in surprise. “What good will that do?”

“I’ve seen how the kitchens were built. They’re designed like a bunker, and they have a fully-underground replica of the Great Hall. I think they were meant to double as a shelter in case of a siege. It should keep them safe from the fighting, and if Hogwarts falls, the elves can send them out through the drainage tunnels and scatter.”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” Ron piped up. “If they can’t get out, that’s about the best we can protect them, and they won’t be in their dorms like the Death Eaters expect.”

McGonagall slowly nodded. “Very well, I can see your logic. Anything else, then?”

Hermione closed her eyes, visualising. “Isolate the West Wing,” she said.

Ron nodded: “Good point. The East Wing isn’t nearly as defensible, and we’re all here already anyway. Can we blow out the bridges?”

“Hermione can,” Harry said. “She’s loaded with C-4.”

“I’m not sure I want to know, Mr. Potter, but that won’t be necessary,” McGonagall said. “I’m sure Mr. Finnigan would jump at the chance.”

“And we’ll help,” Fred and George said in unison.

 _Just like old times_ , Hermione thought.

Many Order members were streaming in from the viaduct to the East Wing. Hermione could see the dust from the carriages pulling up at a reckless speed around the Lake to those doors. Sirius and Remus came by broom, as did Angelina, Alicia, and Katie. But what really surprised Hermione was when other muggle-borns showed up.

“Sally-Anne?” she exclaimed when her former roommate appeared. “What are you doing here?”

Sally-Anne timidly met her eyes. “We’re making our stand here, aren’t we?” she said. “I can’t let Lily face it alone.”

“Oh. Er, it’s good to have you, then,” Hermione said.

Justin showed up too, and then Dean. Dirk Cresswell appeared despite his ordeal at Malfoy Manor. Others who were on the run came as well: the Fawley heiress who had also been held in Malfoy Manor. Luna and her far more reluctant father. And then…Tonks?

“Dora?” Remus said. “What are you doing here?”

“I had to see you, Remus,” she said. “You think I’m gonna let you come fight without me.”

“Um, yes. Yes, that’s exactly what I think,” he told her.

Tonks glared at him, and her hair flashed red.

“Dora, please. Think of Sasha…Where _is_ Sasha?”

“He’s with my mother. He’ll be safe.”

“Only so safe with his own mother here,” Remus insisted.

“That’s exactly _why_ I’m here, Remus. To _keep_ him safe.”

“Tonks!” Harry jumped in.

She spun on him and snapped, _“What?”_

“Don’t do this, Tonks,” he said. Her fair flashed red again, but he stood his ground, though he turned to Remus. “Or one of you,” he said. “It shouldn’t be both of you, here.”

“Harry, I—” Remus started.

“ _No._ You shouldn’t both be here,” he insisted. “You need to think of your son. There’s been enough orphans made by this war already. Don’t risk creating another one. One of you should stay home, and…frankly, Remus is more experienced.”

Tonks glared at Harry. “Oh yeah? Come closer and say that to me again, Harry. I’m here to make the world safe for my son.”

“Dora—” Remus stared.

“I’m not leaving, Remus.”

Harry sighed: “Tonks, I’m really, really sorry about this.”

“What do you— _ERK!_ ”

There was a flash of red light, and Tonks slumped into Remus’s arms, revealing Ginny behind her. Remus stared at his wife open-mouthed in shock.

“You’re welcome,” Ginny said.

Remus looked between her and Tonks a couple times, then nodded. “Probably for the best,” he admitted. “Can you get her out of here?”

“No, but we can put her with the younger students,” Hermione said. She waved down McGonagall to hand her off.

Molly was the next to arrive, and Hermione was worried she would lead to even more drama, but she greeted her anyway: “Molly, you came!”

“Well, I’m certainly not going to let my family join this madness without me, dear,” Molly said fiercely.

“Fleur didn’t come, did she?”

“Of course not, Hermione. And Ginny, you shouldn’t be here either. It’s too dangerous.”

Ginny whirled on her mother. “Mum, if you’re going to try to stop me, this is _not_ the time.”

Hermione reached up to touch Molly’s shoulder. “It’s too late to evacuate anyway, Molly,” she said. “The younger students will be hiding in the kitchen, but Ginny—”

“Should be with them,” Molly said.

“Where Harry goes, I go, Mum,” Ginny snapped.

It was then that Molly noticed the scar on Ginny’s forehead. “Ginny?” she said worriedly. “What happened to you? Your head—?”

Hermione sighed: “That was…sort of my fault, Molly. You see, the…connection between Harry and You-Know-Who…”

Harry laid a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll tell her, Hermione,” he said.

Hermione turned to him. “What—are you sure?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It had to happen—”

“—sooner or later,” Ginny finished for him. “Come on, Mum.”

“We have a lot—”

“—to tell you.”

“It’s quite—”

“—the thrilling tale.”

Molly’s eyes grew wider and wider as she saw Harry and Ginny flawlessly copying George’s and Fred’s twin-speak routine, but Hermione wondered how long they’d been practising that. They weren’t _that_ good yet.

“I…I…” Molly stammered.

“C’mon, Mum,” Ginny said. She and Harry led her away, leaving Hermione and the rest of the Order to focus on securing the school. Among the last to arrive were Colin and Dennis Creevey, and a small, blond figure jumped down from Colin’s back.

“Sonya!” Hermione exclaimed. “How have you been?” Then she slapped her head. “Oh, I’m being dumb. Dobby!”

 _Pop!_ “Miss Hermione—? Sonya!” he gasped. He ran to her and kissed her, much to the surprise of the Order who were not at all accustomed to such a public display from house elves. Even McGonagall raised her eyebrows.

“Well, there’s something you don’t see every day,” Sirius said. “I left Kreacher at the safe-house. He’s got better, but I don’t trust him quite that much. Besides, someone has to take care of Hedwig.”

“Oh, Hedwig!” Hermione exclaimed. “I’d completely forgotten about her. Harry hardly ever mentions her. She’s been with you?”

“Yeah. Ever since Harry got run out of Hogwarts the second time. And let me tell you, she is _not_ happy about being kept indoors, but a snowy owl is just too conspicuous.”

That made sense, she thought. “Dobby, we’re making a stand at Hogwarts tonight,” she told the elf when he was done greeting his…girlfriend, she supposed. “I’d like you to help the Hogwarts elves with whatever they’re doing. Sonya, you should probably do that, too. Professor McGonagall, what _will_ the elves be doing?” she questioned.

“I will take care of that, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Tilly!”

 _Pop!_ “You called, Professor McGonagall, ma’am,” The grey-haired elf said when she appeared before them. But Hermione noticed her attire had changed. She was wearing a more ornate tea towel than before—the uniform of the Head Elf.

“Tilly?” Hermione said in surprise.

“Grandmum?” Sonya squeaked.

Tilly saw her and bowed. “Hello, Miss Hermione. Sonnitt,” she said.

“Tilly, He-Who…Lord Voldemort is preparing to attack Hogwarts as we speak,” McGonagall said. Tilly squeaked in fear, but she stood her ground. “The younger students will be taking supper in the kitchens and spending the night there for safety’s sake. For the rest of the school, please send up some platters of sandwiches so we may keep up our strength as we defend the castle. Oh, and take Mrs. Lupin to the kitchens with you—and Ms. Jorkins and her child, I suppose.”

“Yes, Professor McGonagall!” Tilly saluted and vanished with Tonks with a _Pop!_

“Tilly’s the Head Elf now?” Hermione asked.

McGonagall nodded. “Sadly, Flory died last autumn. At her age, she could not handle the stress. Professor Sprout made Tilly Head Elf as she is one of the few elves with the constitution to go toe to toe with the Death Eaters.”

Hermione smiled a bit. “Yes, I know where Sonya gets it,” she said.

“Indeed. Ah, and I am sorry to have to inform you that Winky is also dead.”

“Winky?” Hermione gasped. “How?”

“Barty Crouch murdered her early last autumn. There wasn’t anything we could do. I suspect he didn’t want her revealing any secrets or working against him.”

Hermione felt a pang in her chest. After all Winky had been through, to meet such an ignominious end at the hands of her former master…It was sickening, but she couldn’t dwell on it now. And soon enough, she was distracted by another unexpected arrival—a tall, black-haired witch in burgundy robes.

 _“Septima?”_ she gasped.

“Hermione,” Septima smiled.

Hermione ran to hug her former teacher. “Septima, what on Earth are you doing here?” she asked.

“Just because I can’t do arithmancy anymore doesn’t mean I can’t fight,” she responded. “If this is it, I couldn’t let you face it without helping you—all of you.”

“It’s good to see you, Septima,” McGonagall said, clasping her arm. Septima nodded in return and soon joined the others.

Kingsley was the last one through the doors. He surveyed the assembled Order and then approached McGonagall. “I think that’s everyone, Minerva,” he said. “At least, no one else came to me for a Portkey.”

“Just a moment, Kingsley,” McGonagall said. “We’re still waiting for two more.”

“Oi! Yeh didn’ go startin’ the party without us, did yeh?”

_“Par-tee!”_

“Hagrid!” Hermione squealed.

She ran to hug her half-giant friend as he trudged into the Entrance Hall. Grawp was right behind him, having to stoop to get through even the huge doors of Hogwarts. His strength would be a great advantage, especially if You-Know-Who had giants of his own.

“Good teh see yeh, Hermione,” Hagrid said. “And—Harry, is that you?” He noticed his hair. “Oh, right, reportin’ fer duty, Professor McGonagall.”

“Excellent,” McGonagall said. “That’s everyone. Professors of Hogwarts!” she called. “Now is the time! We must protect the school!” She and most of the other teachers moved into the courtyard and pointed their wands at the sky.

_“Protego Maxima. Fianto Duri. Repello Inimicum. Protego Horribilis. Salvio Hexia. Cave Inimicum. Protego Totalum…”_

A dome of light began to form over the castle as they chanted—like a Shield Charm, but on a scale Hermione had never imagined before. She wasn’t entirely sure what she was seeing. A ward so powerful couldn’t come from wands alone; it had to be from the main wards of Hogwarts. Yet the teachers were activating it and probably tweaking it somehow with their spells—presumably adjusting it for the current situation. The dome came down and touched the ground around the castle with a force that shook the stones. But Professor McGonagall wasn’t done. She turned around and faced the entrance, where she incanted, _“Piertotum Locomotor.”_

There was a sound of grinding stone and then a loud crash as the stone statues that lined the battlements sprang to life and jumped down to the courtyard below. Echoing crashes reached her ears from the farthest reaches of the castle, and Hermione jumped and backed up to get out of their way. There were dozens of statues marching forward, each larger than life at nearly eight feet tall.

 _“Hogwarts is threatened!” shouted Professor McGonagall. “Man the boundaries, protect us, do you duty to our school!”_ She turned to Hermione, looking like she was on the verge of giggling. _“I’ve always wanted to use that spell,”_ she said.

Hermione laughed. She dodged between the statues as she followed McGonagall back inside. In the Entrance Hall, there were yet more statues: suits of armour marching down from the Grand Staircase and the corridors throughout the school. They returned to the Great Hall, where McGonagall addressed the students, trying to reassure them. Many of them were shivering, some crying in fear, and it would only get worse before the night was over.

“There is not time to evacuate the castle,” McGonagall said. “The underage students and Slytherin House will take refuge in the kitchens. They are one of the most defensible parts of the castle, and the House Elves will be able to supply provisions there.”

Hermione looked around and spotted the Slytherin members of the D.A., who were shifting their feet nervously. “Professor,” she spoke up. “It wasn’t all of Slytherin that opposed us, was it? They deserve a chance to fight, too.”

McGonagall turned to face her. “I admire your fair-mindedness, Miss Granger, but Slytherin House has been the Death Eaters’ recruiting arm for this entire year. We cannot take the risk of traitors in our midst.”

“I’ll vouch for Daphne and Tracey personally, ma’am,” she insisted. “Oh, and Blaise too, I suppose.”

“And me!” Astoria Greengrass piped up.

“Me too!” called Georgina.

“Astoria, _you_ need to get out of here,” Daphne said.

“No way. I’m not leaving my sister!”

“You’re not in any state to fight.”

Hermione jumped in before they could make a scene: “She’s right, Astoria. We can take Slytherins, but we need to make sure the people fighting won’t be a liability.”

Daphne laid her hands on her sister’s shoulders: “What Granger said, Tori. Besides, you’ll be one of the oldest members of the D.A. in the kitchens. We need you to help keep the younger kids from panicking.”

Astoria looked up into Daphne’s eyes, then conceded and lowered her head, apparently accepting having _some_ important job. Septima would ensure Georging went with her.

“Daphne, Tracey, can you vouch for any other Slytherins you trust?” Hermione asked. They nodded their agreement.

“Better check ‘em for the Dark Mark just in case!” Ron said.

Hermione rolled her eyes, but it was a fair point. “Neville, Daphne, Anthony, and Susan, can you vouch for any students who are competent enough to be more of an asset than a risk in a real fight?” she went on.

“Miss Granger!” McGonagall snapped. “We should not be allowing _any_ underage students to fight.”

“With all due respect, I think we’re past that point, ma’am.”

“She’s right, Professor,” Neville agreed. “Anyone who truly wants You-Know— _Riddle_ gone and can fight, now is the time!”

A loud cheer went up from the crowd, and McGonagall was forced to admit. “Very well. Prefects, do a head count and ensure no one is missing. Fifth-year prefects, escort your houses to the kitchens.”

Once that was sorted, Hermione drew a deep breath and took the diadem off her head. Hogwarts would be protected. About as well as it could be, in fact. Now, it just remained to hold out long enough to complete the ritual.

“Hermione, can I talk to you?” George said.

“Yes, George?”

George pulled her away to the antechamber off the Entrance Hall where the first-years always waited before the Sorting, and he took a deep breath: “Hermione…there’s something I really need to say since this is—you know, coming to a head tonight.”

Hermione held up her hand to cut him off: “George, is this really the time?”

“Um, did you not hear what I just said?”

“I don’t want you to say anything that you wouldn’t say if we weren’t at serious risk that we’ll both be dead by morning,” she insisted.

“Well, too bad, ‘cause I’m saying it anyway…Marry me.”

Hermione stopped dead. _“Wh-wh-what?”_

“Marry me,” he repeated. “And I would’ve said it anyway—probably not this soon, but I definitely would’ve said it. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.” He reached into his robes and pulled out a ring, and Hermione squeaked in shock. It was an antique-looking ring with interlocking yellow and white gold bands and a diamond and a ruby set into it. “You see…Mum gave me this right before we officially moved into the factory with you,” George said. “It was _her_ mum’s wedding ring, and she wanted me to have it…for you.”

Hermione’s mind was a blur. _Molly_ was in on this? And was this _really_ the bloody time?

“So, I can get down on one knee and make a sappy, drawn-out speech, if you really want,” George pressed on. “But the important thing is that I love you, Hermione. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. And I don’t want to go into this fight without making it official.”

He held out the ring to her. Hermione was still frozen. Her mouth hung open, but no sound would come out.

“Hermione?” George said worriedly. He waved his hand in front of her face when she still didn’t speak. “Hermione, please say something.”

“Yes, of course I’ll marry you, George.” The words tumbled out of her mouth as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She half-snatched the ring from his hands as she helped him put it on her finger. Surprisingly, it fit snug enough. Before she could speak again, he swept her up in his arms and kissed her hard. She put her arms around him, almost allowing herself to get lost in the kiss—almost.

She pulled away from him a bit. “I’m keeping my maiden name,” she said. “It’s too confusing building up a scholarly reputation when you suddenly have to change your name on all your papers.”

George laughed and gave her another quick peck on the lips. “Whatever you want, Hermione,” he said.

Suddenly, there was the loud thud of an impact overhead and a rumbling in the foundations of the castle. They both looked up and then back at each other.

“But we _really_ have to get moving,” she said.

They ran back to the Great Hall, where the Order and the defending students were reassembling, the younger students already down in the kitchens. The Enchanted Ceiling gave enough of a view of the outside to see what was happening. From the north side of the castle, literally _hundreds_ of curses slammed into the shield surrounding the castle, leaving flashes of light where they impacted, and the rumbling grew continuous as the bombardment ramped up.

“To the battlements!” McGonagall shouted.

The defenders scrambled up to the top of the West Wing, making good time. Hermione figures on the bridges breaking them down as they climbed, leaving the West Wing as a very defensible keep—or it was when it was built before the invention of the broomstick, but it was the best they could do. When they finally reached the battlements, the bombardment was still continuing.

“How long will the wards hold?” she asked McGonagall.

“If were lucky, long enough,” was the answer.

Hermione stared out grimly through the battered shield. She managed to make out the vague outline of a massed force, hundreds strong, standing at the edge of the Forbidden Forest. She then looked around the battlements and took in the absurdity of her situation: eighteen years old and already engaged, on the most dangerous night of her life, trapped in a castle that was being hammered by an army of dark wizards like an entire artillery brigade, waiting for a wounded teacher to finish carving the runes that were their only chance of winning.

_Engaged._

She grinned and gripped her wand tighter in her hand: “To hell with this. I’m gonna _live!_ ”


	77. Chapter 77

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Dies irae, dies illa solvet saeclum in favilla, teste David cum Sibylla…et JK Rowling.  
> A/N: Part of this chapter is quoted from Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

“Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Shouldn’t you be helping with the ritual you mentioned?”

Hermione shook her head: “Professor Babbling can handle carving the runes at least as well as I can. There’s no point until that’s done…There are some other things I need to check on, but I’d like to get my bearings with what’s happening here first. Where’d Colin and Dennis go?”

She walked along the battlements where the defenders were lined up, watching You-Know-Who’s army as the bombardment continued. They weren’t using Killing Curses, which mildly surprised her. A Killing Curse would cut straight through the wards like they weren’t there. But then again, most spells travelled barely as fast as an arrow and were far more visible, so you could practically dodge them in your sleep at that distance.

Right now, it was a tense waiting game—waiting to see how long the shield would hold. This was about the largest magical attack Hogwarts could have ever been expected to face in the small magical community, and even its powerful Anchor Stones could only pull so much power from the ley lines without disrupting the national grid and possibly burning themselves out. That was something they most certainly couldn’t afford.

Colin and Dennis Creevey stood by Professor Flitwick near where Gryffindor Tower rose from the keep, taking turns watching the enemy with their Omnioculars.

“Hello, boys,” Hermione said.

“Oh, hi, Hermione,” Colin said.

“How does it look out there?”

“Scary. I didn’t know You-Know-Who had so many people.”

“May I?” she asked. He handed her the Omnioculars. She looked out at the dark army. It was hard to make out through all the spellfire, even with the light of the setting sun, but she saw hundreds of people with their wands raised, firing spells continuously at the shield that surrounded the school. “How can they keep casting that long without stopping?” she muttered.

“By putting less effort into their spells,” Flitwick said. “It’s like the difference between sprinting and running a marathon. With so many of them, they can rely on quantity rather than quality.”

Many was right. They weren’t all Death Eaters. They couldn’t be. Only a fraction of the witches and wizards out there were wearing the robes. Had You-Know-Who recruited every former Slytherin under the age of forty? No, she chided herself. She couldn’t lock herself into thinking in House terms like that. They wouldn’t be all Slytherins, and even if they were, there weren’t quite _that_ many. Some of them had to be from the Continent. There weren’t _that_ many reprobates in magical Britain, were there? And a lot of them were probably Ministry folks press-ganged into the fight, or Imperiused. She spotted a man with an odd jacket in the front row who might have been Scabior, the Snatcher who had found them outside Bangor, and there was a ragged-looking group who might have been werewolves.

And she saw _him_. Riddle was standing front and centre—confident—and exposed so that one Killing Curse could take him down if they could hit him, but that would be nigh-impossible. He could dodge, too.

Not all of them were human, either. Half a dozen giants hefting uprooted trees ran forward and physically beat the shield with them. Spiders the size of horses scuttled around the army—acromantulas from the Forbidden Forest—once Hagrid’s “friends,” though she doubted that was the case now. To the east, about a hundred dementors were pressed against the shield—not moving—just standing there with their hands against the ward, waiting like something out of a horror film.

Four or five hundred of them, including the dementors, against, what, a hundred defenders?  A hundred and twenty? If the shield held, they would be fine, but Hermione was working on the assumption that it wouldn’t.

It was perhaps half an hour from the moment the bombardment first started when the spells…just stopped. The giants backed up to the rest of the crowd, and the dementors moved away from the shield, albeit not far.

“What’s happening?” Dennis asked.

“Taking a rest?” said Colin.

“Or they can’t get through.”

Suddenly, a voice came to them over the wind. Riddle’s. It was high and clear and far too loud—not shouting, but amplified so much they would hear it clear down in the kitchens. And not just projected. It seemed to come from everywhere at once, as if the stones themselves were crying out with his voice. Many of the students screamed at the sound.

 _“You have prepared to fight,”_ Riddle said. _“But you cannot win. Hogwarts is strong, but it cannot stand under a prolonged assault. You are outnumbered, and most of your number are outmatched in experience. You cannot fight me._

_“I do not wish to spill magical blood. And I do not wish to lose the talent that has made Hogwarts the great institution of magical learning that it is. It is too valuable to lose to such futile fighting._

_“Give me Harry Potter, and none shall be harmed. Give me Harry Potter, and I shall leave the school untouched. Give me Harry Potter, and you will be rewarded._

_“You have one hour.”_

The voice stopped, and silence enveloped the castle like a cloak. The defenders looked at each other, pale faces tinted orange in the sunset.

“Good! Now it’ll be easier to think clearly,” Hermione said loudly.

A few people cheered, and the tension was broken. It was spoken more from annoyance and anxiety than confidence, but it worked.

“He probably called a cease-fire because they need to rest after a bombardment like that,” Flitwick pointed out.

“We’ll take what we can get, Filius,” McGonagall called.

For her part, Hermione continued circling the battlements. She felt useless up here. There was nothing to do but try to wait out the bombardment. She could go down to the Anchor Stones and help Professor Babbling set up the ritual. She probably _should_ , in fact. She’d written out the runes meticulously, but she couldn’t be certain the would be able to follow them. But there was another part of the ritual that ought to be handled first. She needed the other teachers’ help for that.

Snape was surveying the defences under the close watch of Professors Sprout and Sinistra. They looked grim-faced, and also paralysed by the waiting game. She passed over talking to him. There would be time for that later. He might be on their side, but she would rather deal with a known quantity. She made her way back to McGonagall. “Professor?” she asked. “There are a couple of things I need to check on. They could be fairly important.”

“Yes, Miss Granger?” McGonagall said.

“I need to look at the Hogwarts Student Register.”

“The Book of Admittance?”

“Yes, that.”

McGonagall sighed. “That would have been easier _before_ we sealed off the East Wing.”

“I have a broom, ma’am,” Hermione said. “As long as you didn’t activate any arcane traps in the East Wing…” McGonagall gave her an acerbic stare. “You did, didn’t you?”

“We are protecting the school, Miss Granger. What did you expect?”

“Fine, but I do need to get in there,” she insisted.

“What about your ritual?”

“This _is_ part of the ritual—sort of. It’s complicated. And I don’t want to reveal too much. It’s already enough of a risk letting so many students see it with Professor Babbling.”

McGonagall regarded Hermione carefully. “A fair point, I suppose,” she conceded. “If it’s really so important, I will escort you. I believe Mr. Potter also brought a broom?”

* * *

It look some doing to get into the East Wing and up to the tower above the Grand Gallery. It wasn’t particularly dangerous with McGonagall there to deactivate the traps, but it took time—something of which they had precious little. Finally, they reached the tower and the small locked room that held the Register.

The room was unassuming enough. It held only a chair and the ancient, wooden table on which the Book and Quill sat. The Quill of Acceptance was a long, green and black feather sitting in an empty inkwell—an augurey feather, according to _Hogwarts, A History_ —a feather that normally repelled ink. The Book of Admittance was made of finest vellum, and it seemed to have too many pages to fit between its bindings—enough for a thousand years of names.

“Never touched by human hands,” Hermione muttered to herself.

“Indeed,” McGonagall said. “Not even to move it here when the East Wing was built. The Headmaster at the time levitated the entire table.”

“Mm hmm.” None of which was really important right now. “Can you turn to December of 1926?”

McGonagall turned to her and raised an eyebrow, but she seemed to accept it. She waved her wand, and the vellum pages turned. It was only a small way back, and when the flipping of pages stopped, Hermione leaned forward and saw the record:

_Tom Riddle, Room 17, Wool_ _’s Orphan, London_

_b. 31 December 1926_

His was the only name on that day.

“That’s him, then?” McGonagall said.

“Yes, that’s him.”

“And this is important?”

Hermione looked back at her: “Extremely. This rules out the majority of the magical population of the British Isles.”

“Rules out for what, Miss Granger?”

She didn’t answer. “We should be getting back, Professor,” she said. When McGonagall kept watching her expectantly, she added. “I don’t want to reveal more than I have to.”

“Very well,” she replied and started them on their way back. They made their way back to the battlements, where Hermione quickly flagged down Harry and Neville.

“Where’ve you been?” Neville asked. “Our hour is almost up.”

“I had to investigate something,” she said.

“Did you find what you need?” Harry asked.

“Partly. Listen, this will be harder, but if we can, I’d like to be able to talk to the other magical races in Britain—that’s the goblins, the house elves, the centaurs, the merpeople…I’m not sure if there are others. Professor, do you know?” she asked McGonagall.

McGonagall looked confused: “I’m not certain what you mean, Miss Granger. Centaurs and merpeople are classified as beasts. Do you mean all intelligent magical creatures?”

“Yes…er, at least, intelligent enough to carry on a conversation, ma’am.”

“Ah. Hm, there are a few hags—”

“How many?”

“Not many. Perhaps a hundred, I should think. The werewolves…the giants and acromantulas, of course.” She motioned across to where Riddle’s army had gathered.

“Acromantulas…” Hermione said. There were a lot of them. “How long do they live? Wait, no, Aragog was the oldest, and he wasn’t that old. Are there any others?”

She thought for a minute. “Trolls might qualify depending on your opinion of them…and the only other creatures I can think of who can speak intelligently are leprechauns, but really, what does this have to do with anything?”

Hermione ignored the question. “How long do leprechauns live, Professor?”

She sighed: “Not long by human standards. Twenty or thirty years, although they seem to operate much faster than we do.”

“Okay, then. Just the four,” she mused. “I don’t think we can get to the hags and giants safely. Of course, elves will be easy. Dobby.”

 _Pop!_ “Yes, Miss Hermione?” Dobby said.

“Dobby, you were born in 1927, right?”

“Yes, Miss Hermione.”

Strange to think that the little elf was seventy years old, but house elves lived a long time. “I need to know if there are any other house elves around your age—specifically, an elf who was born on New Year’s Eve of 1926.”

“Where, Miss?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere in the British Isles.”

Dobby’s eyes grew even larger than usual. “I do not know of any, Miss,” he said, “but there is many elves around.”

“Can you ask around the kitchen elves without attracting too much attention? Maybe ask Tilly? I know it’s a long-shot, but I want to be thorough.”

“I will try, miss,” Dobby said

“Report back in a couple hours, please.”

“Yes, miss.” He popped away.

Hermione knew it wasn’t likely. Even highballing it, she couldn’t imagine there were more than ten elves born in Britain that whole year, and probably half that many, but she needed to be as certain as possible.

Neville was staring at her in utter confusion by now. Harry was too, but she caught a hint of understanding in his eyes. “Um…Hermione, what’s this about?” Neville asked.

“It’s some stuff I need to sort out for the ritual, Neville,” she said. “Now, if it’s possible to do safely and discreetly, I’d like to try to communicate with the goblins, centaurs, and merpeople. It’s not essential, but the more of them I can, the better.”

Neville, Harry, and McGonagall stared at each other. She knew she was being vague, but the walls had ears, and if any clue got back to Riddle of what she was looking for, much less why, it could be catastrophic. But McGonagall shook her head: “The only way to message them would be a Patronus, and with the shield up, there’s no way for them to get a message back to us…I suppose the merpeople would be close enough to the shield to speak to them,” she offered.

“Okay, focus on them for now,” she said. “Does anyone here speak Mermish?”

“Luna does—a little, at least,” Neville said.

“Good. I need to talk to her. I guess we can’t reach the centaurs at a time like this. But the goblins…” She turned the problem over in her mind. “If Bill were still alive…of course, he’d probably here fighting with us.”

And then it her. There was one person who might still be able to help. Hermione stepped to a secluded corner, drew her wand and cast, _“Expecto Nuntium.”_ Her Messenger Patronus appeared before her, and she recited her message aloud to ensure it was clear. “Fleur, I’m sorry about this, but I have a job to ask of you, and you’ll want to start as soon as possible—”

* * *

_“—I don’t want you to take any excessive risks, mind, although all of the Death Eaters are here at Hogwarts right now, so the streets should be pretty clear.”_

Fleur listened as the otter Patronus relayed Hermione’s message, wondering what the girl could possibly ask of her at a time like this.

_“I don’t want you to go unless you’re reasonably sure you can do it, and do it safely, but if you can, I want you to go to Gringotts and try to find Nagnok—or any goblin you’re on reasonably good terms with, frankly. I want you to ask him if there are any goblins in the British Isles who were born on the thirty-first of December, 1926. Tell him an accurate answer could be a big help in getting rid of You-Know-Who for good. Trust me. I’ll pay within reason if he demands it. If you can do that tonight, send me the answer by Patronus. Thanks.”_

Fleur stared at the vacant space where the Patronus vanished. Of all the daft things. How could that matter in any way whatsoever? She gazed at the ocean out the window, imagining what Britain must be like tonight. The battle raging at Hogwarts and the rest of the streets deserted. And the ordinary citizens—did they even know?

She looked at the crib next to her where Nadia lay. By morning, according to Hermione and Harry, she would know what kind of world her daughter would grow up in—whether it would be one that supported her or one that enslaved her. Could one inane question really make a difference?

But could True Love’s Kiss cure a lethal case of possession?

“Very well,” she said. It was just sunset now, so she still had a little light. Fleur picked up her sleeping daughter and, for the first time in weeks, left Shell Cottage.

* * *

The defenders took a few minutes to eat some sandwiches from the kitchen, but there wasn’t much time. The bombardment started again exactly on schedule. Curses flew through the air like missiles to hit the shield around Hogwarts, nearly blotting out their view of Riddle. The pace was slower; it looked like Flitwick was right about the Death Eaters needing a rest. Still, Riddle had sounded pretty confident about being able to break through the wards, and he wasn’t the type to make empty threats.

Hermione quickly spoke to Luna, who agreed to go down to the boathouse and speak to the merpeople, relaying the same question to them, and to warn them about potential trouble, but other than that, they were back to the waiting game again, holding their positions or pacing the roof. Nearly-Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron popped up to survey the fortifications, but that was it.

After about half an hour, Hermione heard a scream. She rushed to the northeast corner by Remus and saw the cause of it. Half a dozen hideous giant spiders were digging themselves out of the ground inside the shield.

“They can tunnel _under_ it?” she screamed.

“I don’t think it works as well through solid earth,” Remus said. “Acromantulas at two o’clock!”

Many of the defenders turned their wands in that direction. They couldn’t hit much at that distance, but massed fire should overwhelm such a small attack. Unfortunately, the spiders weren’t alone. Once they were out, wizards popped out of the holes behind them and climbed on their backs. Hermione scrambled for a pair of Omnioculars to get a closer look. The acromantulas were wearing reins and saddles. They scuttled over the ground at high speeds; she might even bet they were as fast as horses. They were agile enough to dodge most of the curses, and the wizards could shield against the attacks they couldn’t.

“Spiders,” Ron groaned, trembling. “Why did it have to be spiders?”

“Hagrid!” Hermione called. “Can acromantulas climb walls?”

“Well, o’ course they can,” Hagrid called back. “They live in trees, don’ they—? Oh, that’s bad, innit?”

 _“Incoming!”_ Neville shouted.

The firefight began. Blasting Curses lanced up and pounded the parapet while dozens of defenders continued to curse the spiders and their riders. They were so fast, they were at the edge of the ravine in moments, and while that would have stopped or at least slowed down human attackers, the acromantulas kept going, scuttling over the rocky terrain, jumping over the river and climbing up to the castle walls where they had some cover under the overhang of the battlements.

“It’s no good!” called Neville. “We can’t hit them at that angle!”

Sir Nicholas floated to the edge of the roof, totally engrossed in the fight. “You can still get them, Master Longbottom,” he said enthusiastically. “Use the machicolations.”

“Mashico-whats?” Neville said.

“Machicolations, boy! The openings in the overhanging floor that let you cast at climbers on the wall.”

Neville looked down, as did Hermione and several other students. The floor was completely solid.

“Hm, perhaps they’ve been filled in,” said Nick in confusion.

Elphias Doge solved that one when he started casting Banishing Charms at the floor—much to everyone else’s alarm, but it paid off when a block slid out of a hole and fell down the wall. An acromantula shrieked when it struck it. That did it. The defenders knocked out the correct blocks to open all the machicolations on the north wall. The acromantulas scrambling up the wall were sitting ducks with those openings. Their riders struggled to hold onto them in their vertical position, and one fell on his own. They evidently hadn’t thought this through.

Only one acromantula reached the top of the wall. It hissed and spat at them in words that might have been English, but were drowned out by the fighting, trying to bite anyone nearby, but against their entire force, it was thrown off the parapet in pieces. Hermione wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Acromantulas were sentient, and so ought to “count” the same as humans, but few people would get hung up over literal man-eaters like them at the best of times, and these weren’t. Even Hagrid didn’t object but briefly. Meanwhile, a sixth-year boy she didn’t know had been bitten and was carried down to Madam Pomfrey in the Infirmary. Hermione hoped there would be enough beds.

“Look!” Colin shouted, pointing back at the field. Screams filled the battlements as dozens more acromantulas poured out of the tunnels. There were no riders this time. There were too many for wizards to control, but they would certainly serve Riddle’s purpose of slaughtering the defenders if they could.

 _“Reducto! Confringo! Expulso!”_ Hermione cast along with many others. There were so many spiders down there now that it was easy to hit them, but that also meant there were too many to stop them from getting to the walls and even over them.

“We have to seal those holes!” Ron yelled.

Hermione and George looked at each other. “I think it’s time for some C-4,” she said.

“I like the way you think,” he replied. “Do you have enough of those grenade things?”

“If not, we can duplicate enough for our purposes. How many brooms do we have?”

“The girls can do it,” Fred chimed in, pulling Angelina along with him.

“What’s this?” Angelina said.

Hermione showed her one of her grenades. “This is a bomb equivalent to an overpowered Blasting Curse. Someone needs to fly over and drop them in the spider holes without getting killed.”

Angelina grinned: “That’s a Chaser’s job if I ever heard one. Oi! Alicia! Katie! Come here!”

The three former Gryffindor Chasers assembled with their brooms. Angelina explained the plan, and Hermione handed them each several grenades, explaining carefully how they operated so they wouldn’t blow themselves up. (She had made the, in the muggle style, with a pin and a handle, though with runic detonators.) They took off and flew over the mounting swarm while everyone else tried to stop the spiders.

“Just like _Starship Troopers,_ ” Hermione muttered.

“Huh?” said George.

“Never mind. It’s actually nothing like _Starship Troopers_.”

The girls were most of the way out to the tunnels when green bolts of light shot up out of nowhere from the ground.

“No!” Hermione and Fred screamed. The girls dodged the first volley and scattered. There must have been another half dozen Disillusioned wizards with that first wave to guard the holes. One grenade went off, blowing a geyser of dirt and body parts stained blue with acromantula blood into the air. Hermione winced and looked away. A second grenade exploded on the ground without touching the holes. The girls circled, trying to line up another pass.

“They need help out there!” yelled Fred.

“Anyone who has a broom in your dorm, go get it!” Neville ordered.

A few people ran for the stairs. With Quidditch cancelled and all means of potential escape being locked down by the Carrows, there weren’t many broomsticks physically in the castle, but even a few would help. The Order had a few more. George was holding onto the one Hermione had flown in on. He handed it to her, but she shook her head. Holding it in the air, she said, “Anyone who actually plays Quidditch want this?”

One of the younger boys from the Gryffindor team—Coote, she thought—grabbed the broom from her. “I’m on it!” he said and he took off with a handful of other fliers.

“I’d better help them,” George said, mounting his own broom.

Hermione sucked in a breath. “Be careful out there, George,” she said.

He gave her a carefree grin. “Me? When am I not careful?” He pecked her on the lips and took off before she could retort. Fred followed him. Harry and Ginny stayed behind, but only because Kingsley made them. There were about a dozen brooms in the air, now, casting curses down at where the hidden Death Eaters seemed to be. (She mentally called all of them Death Eaters even if they really weren’t.) Hermione watched with bated breath, trying to keep track of George as more Killing Curse shot up from the ground, and other spells that would be just as fatal to on a broom high in the air.

Ron called her attention back to the situation at hand: “Uh, guys? _SPIDERS!_ ”

A shrieking acromantula climbed over the top of the wall, causing the defenders to scatter. It was thrown off with a Bludgeoning Hex, but more were coming. A hooked leg stabbed up through one of the machicolations and nearly caught Hermione in the foot. She slashed her wand, and the spider’s foot was severed with an uncomfortably human-sounding scream.

There were enough acromantulas on the wall now that she could pick out some of their words—things like _“Come to dinner”_ and _“Fresh meat!”_ They sounded feral, and maybe they were, living in the woods like that. They certainly had no qualms about eating humans.

Harry jabbed his wand at one of the spiders and shouted, _“Arania Exumai!”_ and it was thrown from the wall. Hermione was surprised. She’d never even _heard_ of that spell before. It sounded like an extermination spell for ordinary spiders, but it seemed to work on these horse-sized behemoths, too. Ginny tried the same spell to great effect. Hermione wanted to ask them about it, but they were a little preoccupied.

Could she reverse-engineer it? Actually, maybe it was worth a try. “Cover me!” she shouted to anyone who was listening, and she backed against the inner wall of the battlement. Reaching into her robes, she pulled out Ravenclaw’s diadem and placed it on her head before squeezing her eyes shut and covering her ears.

She’d never tried using the diadem in this kind of chaos before. Even shut out like this, she could barely concentrate. _Arania Exumai_ , she thought, but she was distracted by the bad Latin. It ought to be _Exuo Araneam_. Stop it! Concentrate! She heard screams and explosions around her and desperately tried to avoid thinking about whether it was one of her friends who was hurt. How do you kill a giant spider—other than crushing it under a giant boot? Their anatomy was completely different to humans, and she didn’t know much about it, but one thing _did_ come to mind: she knew spiders breathed with something called a “book-lung” that resembled gills.

With all the spellcrafting practice she’d had, the elements of a curse came together shockingly fast. She rose to her feet, pointed her wand at the nearest acromantula, and shouted, _“Glutino Araneam!”_

 _“You’ll make a nice meal, wiz—”_ the acromantula spoke before Hermione’s spell hit it. It had been looming over Neville, who was on the ground, but it flailed, unable to breath until it was too disoriented to stand, and Hermione blasted it off the wall.

Explosions sounded from the field, and more geysers of dirt were visible by the spell-light. She tried to spot George, and she thought she saw two heads of red hair still flying. There was a scream, and one of the other fliers went down, his broom aflame, and he fell into the swarm. He didn’t even have time to cast a spell.

Hermione’s heart pounded in her chest. It was only going to get worse. George was still out there, and she couldn’t help him from here. Two more brooms went down—still not the Twins—but it was more of a controlled crash. They landed in a tree and started casting at one of the hidden Death Eaters.

She couldn’t get distracted. She had to focus on the spiders. _“Pyr Thalassion!”_ she cast her Greek Fire Curse in a spread across the base of the castle. “More fire! _Pyr Thalassion!_ ” A few others joined in, forming something like a moat of fire along the north side of the keep. Some of the acromantulas burned, and more retreated. At least they had _some_ sense of self-preservation.

“Watch the flanks!” someone yelled  A few of the spiders had climbed unopposed up the side walls and were scuttling along the ramparts at their flanks. Hermione joined a small group to try to reach them.

“Lookouts would be good!” Ron growled.

Easier said than done. They were a little preoccupied. But Neville had the answer: “The ghosts! Nick! Sir Nicholas! We need the ghosts to watch the south wall!” he said.

“At once, Master Longbottom!” Sir Nicholas saluted and waved over the Bloody Baron to join him. An armoured knight and another ghost with a sword soon joined them.

The flanking acromantulas had them on the back foot. Hermione shifted her wand to her left hand, opened her buckler, and drew Snickersnack from its scabbard as they approached. They kept casting curses, but the acromantulas closed the distance too fast, and one of them hit her so hard she was knocked to the ground. Her heart skipped a beat as it stood over her, and she momentarily had a vivid flashback to a nightmare she’d had when she was nine after reading _The Lord of the Rings_. She parried the fangs with Snickersnack, slicing them off along with one of the sharpened pedipalps. The creature reeled with a shriek, and Harry blasted it off of her. The defenders rallied around her, and the others spiders were set running.

“You okay?” Harry said, pulling her to her feet.

“Yeah,” she said breathlessly. By the time they regrouped, she was relieved to see George was back. Less relieved to see he was carrying a badly-injured Alicia with him. There were still half a dozen brooms in the air, but the acromantulas were scattering.

“The girls got all the holes,” he reported. “There’s still Death Eaters or whoever down there, but not many.”

“We can’t take that for granted, Mr. Weasley,” Kingsley pointed out. “If there are Disillusioned fighters out there, there may be more.”

Hermione gasped. “The Map! Neville! Do you still have my map.”

Nevill stared at her a moment before recognition lit up his face. “Your map of the school? Yeah.” He pulled the Mathemagician’s Map out of his robes and handed it to her. She activated it, but she was alarmed by what she saw. The entire map was flickering and—what she might call glitching. Dots appearing and disappearing, sometimes jumping in place. “Um…we’ve got a problem here,” she said.

Sirius came over and looked at the map. “What the hell?” she said.

“What does _that_ mean?” Hermione asked.

“How should I know? It’s your map.”

“Based on _your_ map! It’s never done this before…Harry, do you still have the original?”

He did. He pulled out the Marauder’s Map and activated it too, but it had the same problem—flickering and glitching.

“Oh God, no,” Sirius said. “After all the work we put into that!”

“No, Padfoot,” Remus said, joining them. “Look at them. If it’s both of them, it’s not the map. They have to be getting faulty data from the wards.”

Hermione closed her eyes and groaned. “Oh, no. The ritual.”

“What? But Professor Babbling would never compromise the wards like that,” McGonagall cut in.

“But these enchantments aren’t in the main wards,” she said. “They’re in the configurable stones on the floor—just like the ritual is.”

“Are you sure?” Harry asked worriedly.

“What else could it be. Harry, Ginny, one of you should go down to the Anchor Stones and check how Professor Babbling is doing. You’ll be able to keep us up to date that way. And Luna’s still down there—oh, no! Luna!”

Neville’s eyes grew wide. “She doesn’t know about the invisible Death Eaters!” he started moving.

“I’ll go down,” Ginny said. “I can help Luna too if she needs it.”

“I as well,” Flitwick said.

Hermione was going, too. She needed whatever information Luna had. She went after the other three, and they reached the Great Tower and began racing, almost sliding down the stairs. The Grand Staircase had frozen, letting them pass quickly, but it was still eight floors down. This would be a really good time to be able to fly, with a broom or otherwise, but they had too few serviceable brooms. The bombardment overhead sounded like thunder as they descended.

They were at the second floor when they saw Luna climbing up towards them. “Oh, hello, Hermione,” she said serenely. “I spoke to the merpeople—”

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

“Look out!” Neville had kept running as Luna spoke, and it was a good thing, too. He grabbed her and dove, rolling them both out of the way of the deadly curse, though they took a tumble down the stairs after that. Hermione jumped back, narrowly avoiding another Killing Curse that was aimed at her.

 _“Homenum Revelio!”_ Hermione shouted, sweeping her wand in the direction the curse had come from, while snapping off a silent Cutting Curse with her other hand. Flitwick did _something_ that made the invisible Death Eaters light up even where she hadn’t cast, though the lights didn’t seem to move with them. Hermione had her buckler open in case they tried something she couldn’t dodge. She tried to anticipate their movements. They had to be on the adjacent staircase. _“Calcifrango!”_ she cast at both ends of it. The structure of Hogwarts was resistant to damaging curses, but her highly targeted Mortar-Crumbling Curse was strong enough to pound the stones out of place. That still wasn’t enough to collapse it, so she mustered her strength and cast _“Pondus!”_ to make it as much heavier as she could, focusing on power over duration. The staircase cracked near the top and fell. There was a scream. The Death Eater must still be on it, but she assumed he could cushion his landing.

“Good show, Miss Granger!” Flitwick squeaked. He himself was throwing curses like the master duellist he was, flipping through the air like a champion gymnast to dodge the incoming spells. Several of their opponents were now visible and motionless on the stairs. More spellfire came up from below. Neville and Luna were on their feet again, but they were running down—faster than running up into the fight. Ginny was still by Hermione’s side, doing what she could.

“Watch it!” she cried as she pulled Hermione out of the way of a curse she really didn’t want to know what it was from how dark it felt. _“Reducto!”_ Ginny cursed back. From the sound, one of the Death Eaters was blown off his feet.

“Thanks,” Hermione said. She pulled her down the stairs after the others. “Professor! Where are they?”

Flitwick cast his revealing spell again. The ones who were cursing back were obvious, of course, but it was the ones who _weren_ _’t_ that she was worried about. She spotted two of them. She waved her wand as if she were cracking a whip and cast _“Angor Animi!”_ That one was a neat little trick. It was almost the trivial case of a dark curse, arithmantically speaking: an undifferentiated pulse of dark magic. It would batter shields and people alike, but it was too unfocused to do much damage. What it _would_ do, though, was induce a sudden sense of impending doom in the targets. It wouldn’t last long, but it was long enough for a distraction. Between her and Ginny, the two lurkers went down hard.

There was a thundering of metal on stone. Animated suits of armour were running up the stairs from below. Finally. The Death Eaters might be able to handle a few scattered defenders, but they ran from the statues. A minute later, the way was clear, and they rejoined Neville and Luna at the bottom of the stairs.

“Bloody hell! You took out an entire staircase, Hermione!” Neville said.

“Wasn’t easy,” she muttered. “Are you two okay?”

Both of them looked banged up from their fall, but they were standing. “I’ll live,” Neville said.

“I might have hit my head, but I’m only seeing one of you,” Luna added.

“How did they get past the statues?” Hermione said.

“By broom at a guess,” Flitwick said. “We can’t see from here if any of the statues are disturbed. I will speak to Professor McGonagall about securing against that method.”

That answered one problem. They relaxed fractionally, and Luna spoke up again: “I spoke to the merpeople, Hermione. I’m sorry, but none of them were born on that day.”

“That’s fine, Luna,” she said. “I’m just glad you’re alright.”

“I told them to hide in the shallows, too, like you said,” she added. “How is the battle going? I heard screaming.”

“You didn’t see any acromantulas?” Ginny said in surprise. Luna shook her head, her eyes wider than usual.

“They tunnelled under the shield,” Hermione said. “We’ll fill you in on the way. Ginny, you should—”

Suddenly, Ginny froze, staring off into space. “Uh, guys?” she said. “Harry says the Death Eaters are trying to…I don’t know, _cut_ holes in the wards?”

Neville blinked, and Luna tilted her head quizzically. “Excuse me?” Flitwick interrupted. “ _Mr. Potter_ says?”

“Legilimency. Don’t worry about it,” Hermione cut in. “What are they doing, Ginny?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a cursebreaker.” She stopped and closed her eyes for a minute. “Ron said that at Malfoy Manor, Bill pulled the wards open like a curtain. It kind of looks like that.” Her eyes snapped open. “Hermione, those weaknesses you found in the wards…”

She shook her head: “No. Even if Rookwood figured it out before he died, it would be at the southwest corner. Professor, do you have any ideas?”

Flitwick’s voice squeaked more than usual as he answered, “Only that we ought to get back to the battlements. If they can do this, we may have less time than we thought.”

“Alright. Ginny, keep going down,” Hermione said. “Let’s go.”

Flitwick stunned, bound, and disarmed the Death Eaters who were still alive and called for the elves to take them to the dungeons. Then, they started back up to the battlements, going slow this time to save their strength and check for intruders, although the statues seemed to have taken care of them for the time being. “Miss Granger, was that a spell Miss Weasley was using?” he asked.

Hermione shook her head. They didn’t have time for this. “Ritual. Very dangerous,” she said, hoping he would get the hint.

“Ah. Pity,” he said.

Upon reaching the battlements, Hermione borrowed a pair of Omnioculars and looked out at the enemy. Riddle was still there at the front, confident in his victory. The front lines of his army were pulling open gaps in the shield that surrounded the castle, more like a hole in a rubber sheet than a curtain. There weren’t many; it seemed to take several of them to maintain each one.

“What’s the situation, Professor?” Neville asked McGonagall.

“The acromantulas seem to be routed for now, Mr. Longbottom,” she answered. “The Death Eaters are bringing more in, but they have to be so obvious about it that they would be foolish to attack before they build up their numbers. Unfortunately, the strain they are putting on the shield increases the risk that they will breach it entirely.”

“Not to mention what _he_ might have up his sleeve,” Kingsley spoke up.

“Indeed. We are considering ways to fortify the open ground between us that should at least slow down any attackers.

“Minerva,” Professor Sprout chimed in, “If I can get to Greenhouse Three, I can drop mandrakes, Devil’s Snare, and Venomous Tentacula around the field. _That_ should slow them down.”

“That’s a good idea, Professor,” Neville said. He looked over towards the greenhouses. They were in the East Wing, but not inside the building. Accessible. “How many brooms do we have left?”

McGonagall noddd: “Enough.”

Sprout looked fiercer than Hermione had ever seen her. “Come on, Longbottom,” she said, “let’s round up the class.”

“Just as long as they can’t be used against us,” Kingsley warned.

“Eh, we’ll figure something out,” she told him.

Mandrakes were the most dangerous of the bunch, Hermione thought, but they weren’t as dangerous as they sounded, no pun intended. Their cry was really only fatal at point blank range, though it was incapacitating at a good distance. Many muggle legends said that it was specifically the person who pulled up the mandrake who would die, not everyone in earshot, so that made sense.

They considered other options—spike traps and the like, or something to deal with fliers. While they were talking, a silver light came up from the south, and a beautiful unicorn Patronus appeared before them. It spoke with Fleur’s voice, and Hermione grinned. Her plan had worked. Fleur didn’t sound too happy, but it worked.

 _“‘Ermione, I ‘ave no idea why you wanted me to go on zis mad errand, but I_ finally _talked to a goblin who would answer my questions. You owe me, by ze way. Not zat it matters. Zere were no goblins in Britain born on New Year_ _’s Eve of 1926. I ‘ope that is useful to you because it is getting dark, and Nadia is getting fussy. I do pray zat you are safe, but I am finished, ‘Ermione. Good night.”_

Harry and Professor McGonagall were both there staring at her when the Patronus vanished.

“Well, that’s two,” Hermione said. “Harry, does Ginny have anything yet?”

Harry nodded: “It’s definitely the runes messing with the maps. Nothing we can do there. Professor Babbling isn’t doing well, but she’s still working. She says they’ll be ready before sunrise, but it’ll still be well past midnight.”

It wasn’t the best news. “I’m concerned we won’t have that long, Minerva,” Flitwick said. “If the Death Eaters are already cutting through the wards like that…”

“I know, Filius, but we’ll just have to deal with that when it comes,” McGonagall answered.

* * *

They were back to waiting again. Everyone was fidgeting up on the battlements. It was even worse that they had to watch the Death Eaters massing inside the shield. They weren’t that many but they still couldn’t do anything about them from this distance, and they couldn’t safely send a large enough force closer. They couldn’t even get a clear count with the continuing light show of curses hitting the shield. All they could do at the moment was fortify the grounds. McGonagall modified the statues somehow to better deal with flying assailants. Professor Sprout’s plants and a few other tricks and traps now dominated the battlefield. Hermione briefly considered building land mines, but decided against it. There wasn’t time to make enough to really matter, and besides, she wasn’t a barbarian.

A sniper rifle, though—that might just be doable in the time she had. It might even solve their problem without the need for the ritual. It was probably a long-shot. Riddle had been raised in the muggle world and would know about sniper rifles, but it couldn’t very well make things worse.

“Has anyone here used a rifle before?” she asked.

“I have,” Justin spoke up.

“Good. Come here, Justin,” she said. “I’m going to build one for you. It you get the chance I want you to see if you can shoot Riddle.”

“Shoot him? Seriously?” Justin said.

“Hey, it worked on Rookwood. Even if it’s not very likely, it’s worth a try.” She got to work. Most of the other defenders found something to do or else got another bite to eat or caught up with one another about what had been happening. She was getting tired from the early (and strenuous) morning, and she paused to call for some tea, but she kept at it.

At a quarter past ten, Dobby reappeared and apologetically informed her that he could find no indication of any house elf who was born on New Year’s Eve of 1926. Hermione informed him that it was alright, and to go back to work with the rest of the elves. McGonagall gave her a worried look at that point, but she didn’t say anything.

Ginny had come back up from beneath the castle before long, although the first indication they had was Harry grabbing a broom for no apparent reason and flying down to get her. She didn’t want to trudge up the over three hundred feet all the way from the Anchor Stones.

The next attack came a little after eleven o’clock. All at once, the Death Eaters inside the shield surged forward. It looked like about forty of them, although even Hermione couldn’t get an exact count.

“Are they mad?” Ron said. “We outnumber them three to one!”

Harry shook his head: “Riddle’s not stupid. He’s doing this for a reason.”

“And they’ll use darker curses than we will,” Sirius pointed out. “We can’t let them reach the castle.”

Hermione fought with the others, but she was with Ron. Riddle had ten times that many fighters in reserve, and he’d had time to send more of them in if he wanted. She couldn’t guess what his game was.

Blasting Curses lanced up at the battlements from the Death Eaters below, and McGonagall shouted, _“Get down!”_ Hermione ducked behind the parapet. Peering out through the crenellations, she saw the Death Eaters cutting their way through the plants and traps, taking occasional potshots at the walls. A mandrake screamed, and she nearly dropped her wand covering her ears against the pounding headache it gave her. All of the Death Eaters staggered, and two of them collapsed, bleeding from the ears. Hermione conjured a pair of earplugs and kept watching. While the Death Eaters were regrouping, curses rained down on them from above, but they must have been able to create sufficient ear protection of their own because they soon advanced again.

In retrospect, the plants weren’t all that useful at stopping them. They slowed them down, and more of them fell as they approached the castle, but they were still too far to get good aim. That was the thing about wands: in terms of aiming and range, they were little better than a longbow. If Hermione had known it would come to this, she would have focused more on magical guns.

The crowd of attackers was already petering out by the time they reached the ravine, but still, they kept coming. _Why?_ she wondered. Even Riddle wouldn’t be so wasteful as to send them on a suicide run. Testing their defences? Whatever the reason, they scrambled down into the ravine with an agility that surprised her, though it still slowed them down. Before long, all of them were stopped. So few Death Eaters couldn’t stand up against so much massed fire raining down from above. Soon, they were all motionless on the ground. In the Omnioculars, she saw not all of them were dead or unconscious, but all of them seemed unwilling or unable to advance father.

“That can’t be all,” Kingsley said. “They could have more invisible fighters. We should patrol the base of the walls.” Kingsley motioned for some of the Order members to follow him and started for the stairs. A few students joined him on general principle. He pointed the broom riders down there as well, but with any assailants being invisible, they would be at a disadvantage in the air.

Harry followed too, but Kingsley stopped him: “No, Harry, I need you up here.”

“I want to help,” he protested. “I’m not gonna sit around letting you risk your lives for me.”

“It’s just a patrol,” Kingsley said sternly. “Any of us can do it, but we need _you_ for the final act.”

Ginny looked to Harry and seemed to communicate something with him, and he slumped and backed down. Hermione wasn’t sure what that was about, but she was at the point of reminding him herself that he had to be concerned with Ginny, too. He’d been bound to Ginny for over a month now, but his hot head still got in the way of his common sense at times like this.

It took time for Kingsley and the rest of the patrol to get to the base of the castle—time in which any hidden Death Eaters could make their move. She could only hope they would get bogged down in the ravine or stopped by the statues. Unfortunately, there _were_ Disillusioned attackers down there. Spellfire erupted at the base of the walls, and there were shouts and curses from below.

“Help them!” someone yelled. It might have been Hestia Jones. Hermione ran to where the nearest fight was taking place, directly above it, and cast down at where the hostile spells were coming from.

 _“Vanderwalis! Incendio!”_ she cast. Unfortunately, there weren’t many area-effect spells for something like this. _“Myxinos! Confringo! Expulso!”_ The combination could have done a lot of damage, but they were either shielding well or successfully dodging because she couldn’t seem to stop them.

Harry went with basic blasting curses from that height. McGonagall simply conjured a dozen or so flechettes and let them drop. Hermione stopped to double-check that they weren’t hitting their own people, the spellfire was so intense. As the fight went on, she thought of something she had seen Rookwood do ages ago, and she backed up and tried the diadem again. It took a minute for her to figure this one out. It required her experimental arithmancy skills rather than her analytic ones, but she had enough information to solve it. When she had it, she walked back to the wall and conjured three rings of magic, honed to a razor’s edge and interlocking in an octahedral shape. With a wave of her wand, she set the rings spinning at high speed and banished the sphere straight down. She could hear it chewing into the rock when it struck.

Finally, it was impossible to say who did it, but two Death Eaters were brought down. By now, she could hear distant fighting from other parts of the castle walls. At a scream of _“Kingsley!”_ she ran for a different part of the battlements. By the time she got there, Hestia was throwing down dark curses in a rage faster than she could follow. “Take that, you bastard!” Hestia screamed. “And that! And that! And that—!”

_BOOM!_

Her left-handed flailing had blown something up in the ravine—loud enough to make her stop and stare. Hermione looked over the edge, and she knew it was too late. She and saw Kingsley’s body motionless off to the side. But the Death Eater who’d killed him was in pieces.

“I think you got him, sis,” a small voice said. Megan. Hermione’s year-mate had caught up and pulled her sister away from the wall. “I’m sorry, Hestia.” Hestia broke down and hugged Megan tight, weeping for the leader she’d lost.

The sounds of the fight were already dying down. The invisible Death Eaters _had_ seemingly been taken down, though not without losses. A few minutes later, she heard that Luke Westenburg also hadn’t come back up. She’d never even met him, but she recognised the name. One of the safe-houses, she was pretty sure. Peakes from the Gryffindor Quidditch team had reportedly been the one eaten by the acromantulas, and she didn’t think they were the only ones.

McGonagall took charge, trying to keep everyone from becoming too demoralised. “They bought us a respite,” she said. “Whatever plan the Death Eaters were enacting, they helped stop it. The wards are still holding. Our task is the same. We will continue to defend the castle.”

That was they all thought for a little while. Then, midnight came.

When the clock struck, something inexplicable happened. It looked as if a beam of white light shot out from the base of the wall, blasted clean through the Hospital Tower, and blew the door off as it shot out to strike the shield dome.

_“What?!”_

“Look!”

In fact, there were four beams, one on each wall, striking in the four cardinal directions. Striking along the ley lines. There was a groaning creak, like glass cracking, but scaled up to immense size, as an actual crack ran up the shield from the point where it impacted. The bombardment that the defenders had almost ignored by this point changed as the dark army concentrated all their firepower on that crack. A giant ran up and threw a tree like a javelin at it.

Ron made the connection first: “The attack was a distraction! They were attacking the shield from the inside!”

Hermione froze in horror. “Wouldn’t they have to do that from the Anchor Stones?” she gasped.

“The main wards, yes, but not the shield,” Flitwick called. “We cast it from the battlements. It could have been done with rune stones at the base of the walls.”

The beams. Of course, the Death Eaters had planted rune stones to destroy the shield. “But how—?” she started.

“Riddle probably already had it prepared,” Harry growled. “Had Rookwood design it just in case. If anyone could do it, it’s an Unspeakable.”

“We have to destroy those stones!” Ron yelled. He was already leaning over the wall, casting curses down at the source of the beam. But the creaking sound grew louder. The cracks in the shield on all four sides of the castle reached up and branched out like frozen lightning. Hermione ran to the battlements beside Ron and threw the most powerful curses she could think of at the rune stone. Was it some kind of feedback effect? No time to worry about that. They had to stop it before—

_BOOM!_

_BOOMBOOMBOOM!_

Too late. The shield lit up with a binding light as it shattered—first the north side and then the rest of it a moment later. At the same instant, the four rune stones exploded against the castle walls. The wave of magic that struck the battlements from the backwash was like nothing Hermione had ever felt before. She couldn’t _breathe_. It was like being plunged to the bottom of the ocean and crushed by the pressure for a split second. It carried with it the sense of being pummelled with shards of glass, even though there was no actual pain. The light was nearly blinding. When it faded, all was silent for a minute. Then, Riddle’s voice resonated through the grounds again.

 _“People of Hogwarts. You have now witnessed the full power of Lord Voldemort. Perhaps you believed that the wards of Hogwarts would hold against me. Now you see that your faith was futile. You no longer have your wards to hide behind. My Death Eaters are free to enter the castle. But Lord Voldemort is merciful. I now offer you a_ second _chance. Give me Harry potter, and I shall leave Hogwarts unharmed. You have one hour._ _”_

Silence reigned again as the awful voice stopped. Everyone stared at each other in horror. Some of the students began to cry—especially the younger of those who came up to the battlements.

Hermione turned, and McGonagall’s eyes met hers. “Miss Granger, can we get the ritual ready in an hour?” she asked.

Hermione understood Ginny’s report well enough to answer: “Not a chance. What about getting the shield back up in an hour?”

McGonagall looked grim. “Not a chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: MACHICOLATIOOOONS! Check out the Shadiversity channel on YouTube if you don’t understand that reference.  
> Glutino Araneam: Latin for “I glue the spider.” In Latin, glutinator can also refer to a bookbinder.  
> Angor Animi: Latin for “anguish of the soul.” Credit to Benjamin Goldberg for this idea.


	78. Chapter 78

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Quantus tremor est futurus, quando Judex (et JK Rowling) est venturus, cuncta stricte discussurus!
> 
> Finally. I had a really hard time finding the time to work on this chapter because of a medical issue that, suffice to say, was inordinately difficult to get help about. Not serious, but extremely annoying and time consuming, and still not fully resolved. You can probably expect the next chapter in two weeks, but that is subject to change.

The first thing Hermione did was look down through the machicolations to see how much damage the exploding rune stones had done. To her great relief, the north wall was battered, but not breached, although the Hospital Wing was compromised. Both the door and the back wall were blown wide open. She’d never noticed it before, but it seemed odd that the Infirmary was in a non-central location in a tower separate from the rest of the castle. In case of quarantine, maybe?

McGonagall’s first reaction was to grab Snape by the shoulder like an errant student, somehow still managing to look intimidating despite Snape being eight inches taller and a Death Eater. “I assume you didn’t know about this, Severus?” she said icily.

“Certainly not, Minerva,” he said, brushing her off. “As Headmaster, I’ve been rather busy to stay as close to the inner circle as I have in the past.”

“Hmph. Well, now the siege wards are broken, and we have less than one hour to figure out what to do about it. Do we at least know the damage to the castle?”

Several of the other professors were already surveying the scene. “It doesn’t look very serious to the main walls, Minerva,” Flitwick said. “As you can see, there is a large hole through the Hospital Tower, but it appears to be structurally stable.

“Except that as it now stands, it is a way for Death Eaters to enter the castle,” she replied. “Everyone! We will have to evacuate the Infirmary to the main keep and collapse the walkway. Quickly!”

Most of the defenders hurried down to the fourth floor, leaving only a handful to watch the enemy in case they made a move before the hour was up. Harry tried to stay by the parapet, but Sirius pulled him back. “You’re the one he wants, Harry,” he said. “We don’t want to give him the chance to swoop in while we’re distracted.”

Ginny agreed: “Go, Harry. I’ll keep watch and tell you if Riddle makes a move.”

Harry agreed and went with the rest of the group. Meanwhile, Hermione stopped Justin and handed him her makeshift sniper rifle. “Here,” she told him. “It should work close enough to the rifles you’ve used before. I already adjusted the scope for the bullet drop, so just aim and shoot.” She handed him a handful of crude, high-calibre bullets. “I only had time to make seven rounds, but if you can’t hit Riddle in that amount of time, he probably won’t give you the chance after that. But don’t shoot unless he makes a move, or the hour is almost up. We don’t want to give him an excuse to attack sooner.”

“Got it,” Justin said. “I’ll be ready.”

“Thanks, Justin.”

She hurried down to the fourth floor with the others, and they rushed into the Infirmary. There weren’t many patients in here yet, but they also had to move the rest of the beds and all of Madam Pomfrey’s supplies. Hermione was just thankful there were no bulky machines to move, and no wires or tubes connected to the patients. That was the nice thing about magical healing: if you survived at all, you rarely needed any complicated equipment.

The hard part was where to move everything. Most of the West Wing was residential, and they couldn’t very well set up in the corridors. The Great Hall was too exposed, and the Room of Requirement was over in the East Wing.

“The Hufflepuff Common Room is probably the best option,” said Professor Sprout. “It’s farther to carry the injured, but it’s near the kitchens and it’s in one of the most reinforced parts of the castle.”

“I suppose you’re right, Pomona,” McGonagall agreed. “Can you hold the door open?”

“Certainly.”

With Levitation Charms, it didn’t take too long to get the whole Infirmary moved to the basement. A wall of barrels had opened to reveal a warm, earthy-looking room. There were potted plants and comfy-looking chairs all around, and the doors to the bedrooms were perfectly circular so that for a moment, Hermione was certain she’d stepped into a hobbit hole. It was only half-underground, but it was their best option. The professors immediately set about walling up the windows by the ceiling.

Cedric gaped when he saw the entrance: “I didn’t know the door could do that! I thought it was just the one barrel.”

“It’s an emergency feature in case we needed to evacuate quickly,” Sprout said. “Although it was expected that we’d be evacuating _out_.”

That made Hermione wonder about the other dorms. Gryffindor also had an entrance you had to pretty much crawl through. In any case, they soon got Madam Pomfrey set up again, and McGonagall summoned a couple suits of armour to guard the entrance. It wasn’t much, but every little bit would help. Meanwhile, Harry was sent down to check on Professor Babbling again (over his protests) so he would be out of sight when the attack came.

When they reached the Grand Staircase again, Hermione stopped. Something had seemed a bit off about those suits of armour, and it finally clicked. “Professor McGonagall,” she called, “that spell to animate the statues, does it affect the top of the Great Tower?”

McGonagall stopped and looked up, her eyes rising up to the hidden upper floors of the Grand Staircase. “You mean above the nominal top of the castle, no, I don’t believe it does.”

“Can you redirect it? Get it to bounce up there?”

“Get it to—? No, I don’t have any way to do that, Miss Granger. Do you?”

Hermione put Ravenclaw’s diadem back on her head and closed her eyes. Soon, she laughed, it was so simple. “I think so, ma’am. Ron, I need your help!”

Ron was there at once. “What’s goin’ on?”

“I think I know away to get more suits of armour to defend the castle,” she explained. “In theory, the interior of the Great Tower goes up forever, but the wards truncate at the fifteenth floor because the Founders didn’t have the right arithmantic techniques—or any arithmantic techniques, for that matter—and the wards patch it over with copies of other parts of the castle.”

“Wha— _oh_ , so there are more statues up there?” Ron said.

“Exactly.” She pulled a notebook from her handbag and started scribbling. “We just need to introduce a small focusing element to the wards to bend them over the gap.” It wasn’t a direct modification to the wards—just the runic equivalent of a lens, and a weak one at that. A fifth-year could do it, given time, but translating it to runes was tricky. She applied the Greek numerals Bill had taught her to produce the correct formula and showed it to Ron. “It doesn’t have to last very long—just long enough to recast the spell, and it’ll flood the tower with enough magical energy to start the process.”

Ron examined her drawings. “Yeah, I can work with this,” he said. “Come up with something quick. What d’you think, Professor?”

McGonagall looked over the drawing. “I’d prefer to check with Professor Babbling, but if it’s only going to be active a short time…We’ll need to do it presently. If this is right, it will briefly leave the outer walls of the Tower unprotected.”

“For a few seconds, yes,” Hermione admitted, but she doubted Riddle would have the time to react even if he noticed.

With Ron’s help, they were done in a few minutes, and McGonagall stood just outside the centre and cast the spell again: _“Piertotum Locomotor!”_

A blinding white column of light shot straight up the centre of the Grand Staircase and shook the Great Tower to its rafters. A distant clanking sound came from far above even as the new runes burnt out, and the light vanished. They had done their work, and the castle now had that many more defenders.

They climbed back up to the battlements, and by the time they reached the seventh floor again, the first suits of armour were already passing them, marching down the other way. Ron stopped and stared, and even McGonagall gave them a bit of pause. The suits of armour were different, now—distorted. These were imperfect copies created by the mathematically undefined singularity in the wards. Some had extra arms, making them even more effective. Some were missing a limb, or literally had two left feet, or had limbs bent at impossible angles. The ones in the front were the most accurate, but when she looked to the higher levels of the staircase, Hermione saw even the most distorted ones still shuffling forward like Monty Python’s Black Knight. A couple looked like they were made of bronze, and one at the limit of her vision had a torch for a forearm instead of a gauntlet, but they could still be useful.

“Not long left, Minerva,” Hestia Jones reported when they came back out onto the ramparts. “I hope we’re ready.”

“As ready as we can be, Hestia,” McGonagall replied.

“Actually,” Hermione said, “there’s one more thing I’d like to try. Now that the shield is down. Does anyone here besides Hagrid know how to get to the centaurs?”

“Eh? What’s wrong with me?” said Hagrid.

“Sorry, Hagrid, but a broom won’t support your weight.”

“We can do it,” George and Fred said in unison.

“I can probably get there quickest, though,” Sirius jumped in. “I doubt you’ll convince them to fight, though.”

“That would be nice, but that’s not what I need, Sirius.”

He frowned. “What do you need, then?”

Hermione turned to her old roommates. “Lavender, Parvati, you two speak astrology,” she told them more quietly. “I want one of you to go with Sirius and ask the centaurs if any of them was born on New Year’s Eve of 1926. Remember that: New Year’s Eve of 1926.”

“ _You_ have an astrology question?” Lavender teased.

Hermione groaned and pinched the bridge of her nose. “This is not the time, Lavender.”

“Relax. I’m kidding. But what’s it for?” she said.

“Just trust me when I say it’s important. Circle around behind the castle to stay out of the line of fire. Can you do it?”

Lavender hesitated, glancing at Sirius, but she answered, “Yes, I’ll do it.” They didn’t waste any time. The two of them mounted a broom, Disillusioned, and took off to the south, flying low.

McGonagall gave Hermione a queer look, but was interrupted by Katie Bell saying, “Professor, Angelina and I were talking, and we were thinking, with the shield down, some of us could sneak to the broom shed and grab some more brooms—or at least keep the Death Eaters from getting them.”

McGonagall waved her off in annoyance. “Very well, Miss Bell. If you think you can do it.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Katie said, and she and Angelina ran off.

“One minute!” Hestia called.

Everyone stopped and knelt down to hide fully behind the parapet, only peaking out through the crenellations. Justin took his position, prone behind one of slits, looking out through the scope of his sniper rifle at Riddle. A tense silence fell over the castle.

_CRACK!_

Everyone jumped. Justin had fired the sniper rifle. The rifle was silenced, of course, but the bullet, travelling three times the speed of sound, wasn’t. For a split second, Hermione let herself hope, but then she heard Justin mutter, “Dammit!” A moment later, another _CRACK!_ sounded, at the same moment, a roar echoed across the grounds. Moments after that, the first curses reached the castle walls.

_BOOM!_

The thunder of spellfire was louder than before. Hermione felt the ramparts shake beneath her feet, heard the parapet grind and crack as Blasting Curses hit it. The magic of the castle would resist a lot, but the wall wouldn’t hold as long as the shield did under that kind of assault. Justin’s third shot was lost in the noise, but his scream wasn’t.

Hermione heard the shouts and turned to see Justin lying on his back. His hands were on fire with a sickly green flame. Professor Sprout tried to put them out, but it wouldn’t work. It took the efforts of several Order members to extinguish them, and by the time they did, Justin’s hands were stiff and blackened. “Oh my God! What happened?” she gasped.

“Dammit, I hit him!” Justin cried, sounding half-crazed. “I _hit_ the bastard, but it just bounced off or something. And then…” He raised his hands.

“A personal ward against bullets?” she said.

“Who cares? He needs help!” said Susan Bones.

“Get him to Madam Pomfrey, quickly,” ordered Professor Sprout. “The rest of you, to your posts!”

“I’m sorry, Justin!” Hermione called as they led him away. Their “posts” under the circumstances were mostly just crouching behind the parapet and firing curses down at the attackers below. As before, the plants presented an impediment to the Death Eaters, and the sheer number of Death Eaters meant they couldn’t properly dodge them like before. Of course, that also meant many of them got through. The castle was strong even against a superior foe, but some of them would still get through. It was a head-on assault—straightforward, but Riddle still had surprises up his sleeve.

 _“HEADS UP!”_ someone screamed. Hermione looked up and barely had time to get a Shield Charm up before a rock that was larger than a basketball and must have weighed more than she did crashed into it and knocked her to the ground. Another rock caved in the chest of a student who wasn’t fast enough a dozen or so yards away. A small tree trunk with its point sharpened like a javelin splintered against the wall, spraying wood chips over the defenders. The giants. Unable to use magic or scale the wall (they were big, but thankfully not that big), they were leveraging their great strength by throwing things with the power and accuracy of any catapult.

By an unspoken consent, about half of the defenders turned their wands on the giants, throwing a hail of curses at them. The giants flinched and backed away to find cover, but it was like throwing so many pebbles at them for all the damage they did. They were just too magic-resistant.

Far to the northwest, the Quidditch stands burst into flames, spreading with supernatural speed. Hermione gasped, wondering if Katie, Angelina and the others were alright, but she couldn’t worry about them now. She had more pressing concerns.

The distraction of the giants had given the rest of the Death Eaters more opportunity to regroup. Their initial charge had actually been beaten back, but they were pressing forward again in a slowly-advancing line. Some of them shielded curses from above, and others dispelled traps and destroyed plants below, clearing the field as they went, and a few still bombarded the castle walls.

A creeping aura of cold and despair was growing on the east side of the keep. The dementors were moving, and little would stand in their way. They glided over the ground, so they couldn’t reach them on the battlements, but such a large congregation would have a crippling effect as they pressed against the castle walls. Another distraction. A handful of Patronuses stopped them in their tracks, but they would require constant concentration by their casters.

The acromantulas also were not deterred by the traps—not enough for them to hold back, anyway. They swarmed in even greater numbers than before, pouring around to the west side of the keep. They crawled up the walls, stabbing their pointed feet in through the broken windows. Luckily, none of the windows in the West Wing were large enough for them to crawl through…except in the Great Hall.

Hermione was about to bring up the point only to see that Ron had beat her to it, explaining hurriedly to Professor McGonagall. She smiled a little. Ron would definitely be the authority on anything spider-related. McGonagall did something that would send more of the statues to the Great Hall. Wizards or giants would be an uphill battle for animated stone and metal, but spiders they could handle.

Finally, there were the fliers. The Death Eaters had surprisingly few brooms in the air, and as far as she could tell, Riddle himself was hanging back, letting his army wear them down before attacking himself. Just as well. Granted, it was a bit difficult to fly with the giants throwing rocks everywhere, but there were some, and they swooped down on the castle from above the rest of the battle. That was dangerous because they could rain down Killing Curses from above at fairly close range, but luckily, at that moment, half a dozen fliers zoomed up from the broom shed with wands blazing. Katie and Angelina were back. Two of their group swooped low and dropped a dozen more brooms on the battlements.

McGonagall and the other teachers began raising arches of stone over the battlements to block curses from the air while the dogfight raged overhead. In retrospect, defending from the seventh floor might have been a superior option. The parts of the castle that weren’t stone were taking a beating—the turrets and the roof of the Hospital Wing—but that wouldn’t be an easy way in for the main bulk of the enemy.

“Miss Granger, perhaps it would be better if you go below with Mr. Potter,” McGonagall said.

“I’m waiting on Sirius and Lavender, Professor,” she replied, and she kept casting curses through the crenellations, doing her small part to slow the enemy down.

It took some time, but Sirius and Lavender finally got back from their mission, coming up from the south side. They looked shaken. “Bloody hell, that was close,” Lavender said.

“You made it?” Hermione said eagerly.

“We made it,” Sirius groaned. “Wasn’t easy, and the centaurs were as confusing as ever, but we made it.”

“None of the centaurs were born on New Year’s Eve of 1926, Hermione,” Lavender said with annoyance. “I hope that answer was worth it.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Lavender. That’s all I needed.”

At that, McGonagall pulled her aside with a suspicious look on her face. “Miss Granger,” she said. “I don’t understand what you mean by these investigations. My first thought I hope I was wrong, and it doesn’t appear to match your actions—but if you are planning some sort of human sacrifice of someone born on that day…”

Hermione gaped for a moment. “What? No!” She cast a privacy spell around them, but she lowered her voice all the same. “Professor, I didn’t explain about the ritual because I can’t risk Riddle getting wind of it, but the truth is, it will place a curse on the day, not him. The ritual is indiscriminate. It will kill every magical being and beast in the British Isles that was born on that day, instantly.”

McGonagall’s eyes widened in horror. “Of course, that’s why you were so interested in birth dates,” she said. “To make sure no one else was at risk.” Hermione nodded. “But, Miss Granger, that is still extremely dangerous. What if there is an immigrant or someone who isn’t in the records who was born on the same day?”

“I’ve made the risk as low as I can,” Hermione said. “I’d put it at one in ten or less. It’s a risk I’m willing to take in the face of…this.” She waved her arm at the battlefield. And there _were_ risks, to be sure—though less than if it were a more recent date. If there were a unicorn born on that day, it could be disastrous, for example, but unicorns didn’t live that long.

McGonagall sighed. “Very well. Then you probably _should_ get below.”

Hermione considered decided it was for the best. She was running out of tricks, so she could only be of so much help to the battle proper at this point. “Yes, ma’am,” she said.

This time, she _did_ take a broom, now that they had a few spares. Descending the staircase, she found herself in the seventh floor gallery. It wasn’t pretty. Some of the windows were blown out, the floor was shaking, and dust fell from the ceiling. She jumped out of the way as a curse blew through a window—probably not even aimed at her—and exploded against the opposite wall. She ran, darting from window to window, making sure the coast was clear as much as she could before passing each one. Twice more, she had to dodge curses. Passing to the west side, she jumped she she heard the thump and shriek of the acromantulas trying to get through windows that were too small for them. She ran faster.

She didn’t like flying a broom indoors, so she didn’t up to that point, but going up and down the more than three hundred feet to the Anchor Stones on foot was more trouble than it was worth. Besides, the statues were still marching down the stairs—uncoordinated statues that now rarely had the correct limbs. She mounted the broom and dropped down to the bottom of the Grand Staircase.

At the ground floor, she peered into the Entrance Hall and immediately regretted it. The place was awash in broken statues and blue acromantula blood. She hoped that most of the spiders had learnt their lesson and backed off, but one of the monsters leaped at her from the shadows whilst screaming, _“Yes! Real meat!”_

A shambling… _something_ stumbled past her, its speed belying its malformed structure. It was more like a modern art sculpture than a suit of armour. The thing had _seven_ limbs, only three of which she could identify, given how form was completely divorced from material: a suit of armour’s arm used as a leg, a table leg used as an arm, and a section of a chandelier that appeared to be both. It leapt upon the acromantula, stabbing at it, and two similar monstrosities followed, driving it away.

Hermione didn’t waste any time after that. Heart pounding, she dropped to the basement, then through the door that led to the crystal cave deep underneath the castle. The light of the Anchor Stones, carved in pure, glowing quartz lit up the chamber. At the bottom, Professor Babbling and half a dozen students were chiselling the runes of her ritual into the onyx floor. Harry stood by with his arms crossed, impatient. “Professor!” she called. Several wands were raised up at her, but were lowered when they saw who it was. “How are the preparations going?” she asked as she dismounted.

Professor Babbling stood up with difficulty. She looked unnaturally tired, and her hand looked blackened like Dumbledore’s had been when he was cursed by the Gaunt ring. It was almost certainly a different mechanism, though, if it was a wand-based curse. She gave Hermione an annoyed sigh and said, “We’re more than half done, Miss Granger, but there is still a ways to go. This work isn’t easy, and it takes time to carve runes to precision, especially without blowing ourselves up with something this dangerous.” Of course, she would have read enough of Hermione’s documentation to understand what the ritual did. She flexed her injured hand stiffly. “And it’s getting hard for me to handle a chisel. Any prospects on getting to the hospital without getting killed?”

Hermione shrugged awkwardly. “If you go Disillusioned by broom, maybe, but there are a lot more fliers in the air now…”

Babbling shook her head, seemingly to herself: “And if I cross the outer wards, I’ll trip the Caterwauling Charm. _Maybe_ they’d ignore it.”

“Professor, if your life is in danger—”

“Less danger than all our lives will be in if we don’t finish this tonight,” she cut her off. “Just don’t let those bastards in.”

The thunder continued overhead with an especially loud boom, but it was too far above to really shake the foundations. Hermione let her go and turned to Harry. He winced at the sound of the explosion. She could only hope Ginny was alright. “How are you doing?” she asked him.

“Wishing I could do more,” he said.

“I’m sorry. So am I.” She looked around and saw a pile of rubble along one wall. “What’s that?”

“That _was_ the way to the boathouse. We collapsed it so no one could get in that way.”

She nodded. Good thinking.

“Miss Granger,” Babbling spoke up again, “who did you plan on actually _casting_ this ritual?”

That _was_ the question, wasn’t it? The number of people needed to cast the ritual was one of the most difficult questions. There were multiple numbers thematically appropriate to use ranging from three to twelve. She eventually settled on the classic pentagram with five casters, but she wasn’t certain she could find that many people who could cast it cold. “Me and Harry for sure—” she started.

“And Ginny,” Harry added. “If I’m going to take the risk, there’s no reason for her not to.”

“Okay. And Anthony, I suppose. Anthony?” she called.

Anthony Goldstein rose from where he was helping with the carving. “You want me to help with this crazy thing?” he said with a sigh. “Alright, I can do it.”

“Good. Thank you, Anthony. And, Professor, can you speak Hebrew?”

Babbling took a deep breath. “Well enough to get through the ritual.”

That was five, then. Hermione had deliberately not mentioned George. He wasn’t completely out of the loop, but he wasn’t as deep in it as Harry, and more to the point, she didn’t want to risk _his_ life if she didn’t have to. Also, his Hebrew was nonexistent. With that settled, Hermione began inspecting the runes. She put Ravenclaw’s diadem back on to look it over and make sure everything was correct. It took time, but they couldn’t risk any mistakes. Luckily, these were seventh-year Ancient Runes students, and they were using good inscription practises—first marking the runes in chalk and then having a second person check them over before carving them.

She was most of the way through when Harry grabbed her shoulder. She tried to slap him away, but he grabbed her all the harder, and she spun and saw deep worry on his face.

“They’re in the castle,” he said.

 

#

 

Hermione gave the broom to Harry and sat behind him as he flew at terrifying speeds up to the seventh floor. She heard screams and shouted curses coming from the North Tower and saw students, teachers, and Order members pouring into it when they arrived there, pursued by Death Eaters—though not as many as she expected.

They jumped off the broom and started duelling while McGonagall ushered people out of the north corridor through a narrow archway into the North Tower that Hermione was certain hadn’t been there before. Some of the Death Eaters sprinted through before she could stop them, but they were outnumbered and quickly cut down. When all of their own people were through, McGonagall waved her wand, and a stone door slid down into place like a portcullis.

“What’s going on, Professor?” Hermione asked.

“We had to abandon the north face,” McGonagall said. “The Death Eaters got through to the base of the castle and blasted a hole large enough to get in. We couldn’t hold them off in that section.”

“But won’t they just do that on the other faces?” she protested.

“Up the sheer rock faces on those sides? They’ll at least have a harder time of it. When the keep was built, it was known that the north face would be easiest to attack, and the interior defences were designed around that principle.”

That archway. It must be possible to seal off the castle into eight sections for the four sides and four towers, and presumably on the entrances to the many staircases, too, walling it off floor by floor and section by section. It make perfect sense considering that when you stripped it down to the central square keep, Hogwarts Castle was designed to be a defensible medieval fortress.

“We must be prepared to defend the castle from all sides,” Flitwick said, “especially from above. Certainly some will get in.”

Meaning they would be forced down as well as back, she thought. “We need at least two more hours to finish the ritual,” Hermione said.

“Then we’ll have to make sure it holds that long,” Neville called out.

The North Tower was still exposed to bombardment from the battlefield, and that meant it probably wouldn’t hold for long by itself. They began backing into the west corridor, and indeed, the curses weren’t coming from across the field anymore, they were coming from above, with Death Eaters running along the battlements and trying to smash through the ceiling. There were yet more spider legs smashing through the windows, and two Death Eaters swung down and slipped inside through them.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_“SOPHIE!”_

Sophie Roper fell. The Death Eater who killed her died before he could kill anyone else. Who knew how many more bodies littered the castle already? Curses began smashing into the west wall, striking at a shallow angle. Hermione ran to the window and ducked as a curse sailed through it. Death Eaters were casting from the windows of the North Tower. They’d already broken through, at least on the upper floors. The defenders rushed to the windows and threw Blasting Curses back at them.

A hole opened in the ceiling and acromantulas crawled through it, clinging to the ceiling before flipping over and dropping to the floor. The first one inside was killed quickly. The second leapt and sank its fangs into a student before it was blasted away. Two more Death Eaters leapt down through the hole into the midst of the group. This was becoming untenable. They’d have to retreat to the sixth floor before long. Hermione could only hope the rest of the defenders were doing better.

 

#

 

Luna really hoped the others were doing better. She and a number of other defenders were engaged in a running duel in the east corridor, and the Death Eaters were forcing them back fast because they couldn’t put their full strength into it. The dementors were still following them, gliding over the rocks as easily as level ground below them, pressing against the castle walls and distracting them from the fight.

She was out of practice—not badly, but she hadn’t done much magic since she was kidnapped. Her father was even more out of practice—or rather, he had never been a fighter in the first place. Yet here they were, fighting a murderous horde of Death Eaters side by side.

She was glad the castle was able to be sealed off into different sections. It was great for slowing the Death Eaters down, but Luna had serious doubts they could hold out until dawn like Hermione said.

“We should barricade Ravenclaw Tower!” Michael Corner said. “We can mount a better resistance from there.”

That was a good idea, Luna thought. Gryffindor Tower had too much exposure to the bombardment from the north to hole up there, but they could set up a very strong barrier to the Death Eaters’ advances in Ravenclaw Tower.

_“Crucio!”_

_“Reducto!”_

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

_“Hemorrhagia!”_

_“Protego!”_

Of course, they weren’t at that point yet. Despite the deadly spellfire flashing back and forth between the two sides and people hiding behind every pillar and alcove, they weren’t forced back to the tower just yet, and they needed to buy as much time as possible. Also, despite the distraction of the dementors, the defenders had some distinct advantages. They were boxed in a relatively narrow space with the Death Eaters forced to filter in a few at a time through the small gaps available to them, so they were better off than they could be for being so outnumbered. Also, many of Luna’s fellow Ravenclaws were not shy about using the questionable spells that Amycus Carrow had taught them all year. Still, she thought as she saw one of the Hufflepuffs fall to a Blinding Curse and her own roommate, Melanie, bleeding out, they couldn’t hold the line forever.

 _“Diffindo! Reducto!_ Take that, you ruffians!” Augusta Longbottom cried as she cut down two Death Eaters at once. Luna smiled at her. She could tell where Neville got it from. His Gran was one of the fiercest duellists in the castle, or so it seemed. She’d been separated from her grandson, and that only seemed to make her fight harder.

Unfortunately, luck was not on her side. Rodolphus Lestrange stalked forward, ready to finish the job he’d started sixteen years ago, and with a string of dark curses, he smashed through Augusta’s shield and cut her down.

Luna wasn’t even aware of lowering her wand and nearly dropping it, or Michael Corner jumping in front of her to protect her from Rodolphus’s next curse and barely getting away with his own life. She barely registered Dad pulling her away from the fight where it was safer, but she _did_ react, tearing away from him and lashing out at the Death Eater.

Even Luna herself wasn’t sure what happened next. It might have been accidental magic despite being channelled through a wand. The normally stoic girl was filled with such rage that she couldn’t articulate a proper spell. She thought she might have managed to conjure a convincing imitation of an Umgubular Slashkilter. Whatever it was, the next thing she knew, Rodolphus was lying on the floor, bloody, her classmates were staring at her in awe and a little fear, and she suddenly felt very lightheaded.

She’d got revenge, perhaps, but the only thing she could think of as Dad pulled her away to rest was, _What am I going to tell Neville?_

 

#

 

Tonks looked to the kitchen door as the ceiling shook and dust continued to fall from overhead. The explosions in the castle above were growing steadily louder and closer. The fighting was in the castle and had been for a while. The younger kids huddled in their seats at the long tables, some of them holding each other, staying quiet through the battle. The house elves were trying to comfort them, but most of them looked scared out of their wits themselves.

How much longer would it take to set up the ritual? An hour? She only had a vague idea of Hermione’s master plan and how difficult it would be to execute. At this point, she was afraid it might be too late when the time came.

Tonks had been furious when she first woke up in the kitchens. She was going to kill Harry and Ginny when she got out of here. But when she saw the frightened faces of the children, who had faced months of oppression and torture already, she changed her tune. Her own mum had been right: being a mother changed your perspective. She cursed herself that she’d been blinded by her obsession with Remus before, leaving a month-old baby alone with her mum. It was too late to back out, but she saw now that Harry had foisted upon her perhaps the most important job in the castle: keeping all these children safe.

It was a burden that fell squarely on her shoulders. Tonks was the only adult witch in the room who was really capable of fighting, and she didn’t like those odds. Safer here indeed! She looked around at her allies. Bertha Jorkins sat rocking her son. Marvolo Crouch, she’d said his name was. Tonks snorted. If they survived this night, you could hardly find a worse name for a baby. In any case, you just had to look at her to know that Bertha was not well. Long-term Imperius exposure had a serious impact on the psyche, and from what she’d heard, Barty’s father had done a number on her with his Memory Charm before that.

There were a few older students and members of that Dumbledore’s Army group, but they were a motley crew. Zacharias Smith was a seventh year and technically competent, but he was also a rank coward, or Susan Bones wouldn’t have sent him down here in the first place. “More of an asset than a risk in a real fight,” was what Hermione had asked for, and Smith didn’t qualify. Astoria Greengrass? Competent _and_ willing, but she looked like a stiff wind would blow her over. Some kind of blood curse, from what Tonks could gather. Georgina Vector was only a fourth-year. The house elves would die for the kids, and there were a lot of them, but being only three feet tall and wandless was a distinct disadvantage.

An especially loud explosion rocked the castle, rattling the support beams on the ceiling, and the students squeaked in fear. Tonks could only estimate where the fighting was, but it was too close for comfort. She waved over some of the older students and the Head Elf to talk.

“Listen,” she said, “I don’t like the sound of things up there. I think we’ll have to start evacuating before long.”

Zacharias Smith nodded vigorously, but Astoria Greengrass wasn’t so sure: “That’s probably a good idea, but where can we go? The whole grounds are crawling with Death Eaters and worse.”

“McGonagall said go through the drainage tunnels, and scatter,” Tonks said. “It could work. We’ll come out _below_ the level of the Death Eaters trying to get into the castle, so they won’t see us.”

“But there’s nowhere to go. If we want to get away from the fight, we’ll at least have to cross the river. And the lake shore along the East Wing isn’t much more forgiving than here.”

Of course, Slytherin girl. She’d know the terrain really well. “We’ll just have to make do, then,” she replied. “Do you remember the Tale of the Three Brothers?” The students slowly smiled, and Tonks smiled back. “Magic can solve it, as long as you’re smart about it and not arrogant or shortsighted. Make a bridge. Then, with cover of night, Colour-Changing Charms, Quieting Charms—things the younger kids can cast—it won’t be perfect cover, but it should be good enough. And besides, You-Know-Who wants the castle and Harry more than the kids. You think you can do it?”

The older students began nodding their heads. It wasn’t a great plan, maybe, but it was the best they could manage. “If it means getting out of here, I’m in,” Smith said unashamedly. Typical.

“Alright, listen up,” Tonks called to the kitchens. “We’re gonna start moving you out. It’s gonna be tricky, but we can do it. You’ll be safer if you’re not all trapped in here. I want all first-years to pair up with someone fourth year or up. Second- and third-years fit in wherever you can. Here’s what we’re gonna do…”

 

#

 

Harry and Ginny weren’t sure how long it had been, fighting off the constant stream of Death Eaters. They’d fought hard for every bit of ground they gave up and made it slow going for the enemy, but they were running out of space. They’d been forced down to the second floor, with most of the floors above them trashed, and they were pretty close to having their backs up against the Great Tower. The Great Tower itself was defensible, but if any Death Eaters got inside, it would be an impossible running battle up and down the Grand Staircase.

_CRASH!_

_“AHHH!”_

Ginny and Harry both jumped when a huge fist smashed through a window, grabbed Elphias Doge and yanked him out of the castle. Ribbons of flesh were left on the jagged edges of the hole, and they could tell there was no way anybody would be able to get to him.

Hermione ran to the window and jabbed her wand, shouting _“Commotio Cordis!”_ The force of the spell knocked her back a couple of steps, and when it hit the giant, it gave a bellow like an elephant and fell off the wall with a thunderous crash, losing its footing on the steep rocks. Hermione took just a moment to look. “I don’t think I stopped his heart, but he should think twice about climbing back up,” she said.

Some of the other Order members rushed to the window to deal with the giants. Luckily, it wasn’t easy for them to get a footing in this part of the castle. Many of the Order cast rather darker curses to handle the giants, but Snape was the one who had no reason to hold back.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

The one fatal disadvantage of using creatures as huge and powerful as giants: they were bigger targets.

Of course, that also meant Snape had revealed himself in a way that the other Death Eaters couldn’t possibly ignore. Fully half of them turned their wands on the traitor before them with the rest covering them. The Order got a few good shots of their own in while they were distracted, but Harry could tell Snape didn’t have a chance. He didn’t even try to shield—too many Killing Curses in the air—and instead dodged as much as he could and focused on the giants, managing to take down two more before he was cornered. At the last moment, Snape turned to look at Harry with an unreadable expression on his face before the green light hit him from behind.

Even between the two of them, Harry and Ginny didn’t know how many people they’d lost so far. They’d seen Kevin Entwhistle fall for sure, and they didn’t know if Professor Grubbly-Plank was still alive, and more. It was only getting harder the closer they got to ground level, with more avenues of attack opening from the sides. In theory, the inner courtyard would be vulnerable too—a shortcut to the south corridor. But to get through it, the Death Eaters would have to bash through two more walls as strong as the north wall they’d already breached, so it was faster to fight their way through the corridors.

Crabbe and Goyle and Crabbe and Goyle—fathers and sons—formed a wall of muscle that was advancing on Ron and Percy. Harry ran to back them up, but some _thing_ beat him to it. Something that was probably supposed to be a statue raced forward, crawling on the ground and weaving between the combatants like a giant centipede. Harry wasn’t sure _what_ it was at first—a nearly-amorphous mass of wood chips, stones, broken glass, twisted lumps of metal, bits of fluff, and more all grinding together. When it approached the attackers, it reached out pseudopods of its bulk that slashed at them, and which reformed in seconds when they were blasted away. The Death Eaters recoiled from it. Crabbe fell, stabbed through the chest, followed by his father. The Goyles had a bit more sense and backed off, but Percy and Fred were still on them.

Harry was then distracted by Lucius Malfoy stepping to the front of the group, fending off curses from all sides. His eyes met Harry’s, and he spoke in a cold voice: “You’ll pay for killing my son, Potter. The Dark Lord wants you for himself, but I can still kill your—”

Harry didn’t let him finish. The moment he saw Malfoy raising his wand at Ginny, he jumped in front of her and started slashing back with a hail of curses at top speed.

 _Kinda defeats the purpose when we_ _’re connected like this,_ Ginny thought to him even as she covered him with Shield Charms.

 _Not now, Ginny!_ Harry dodged a Killing Curse, rolled, and snapped off a _“Commotio Cordis!”_ To his own surprise, his aim was true. The curse blinked through Malfoy’s shield and struck him square in the chest. Malfoy went down, but Harry didn’t take the chance that one of the other Death Eaters would be able to revive him. He threw all his effort into his next spell and shouted, _“Bombarda!”_ The hex caved in Malfoy’s chest, and he went still.

 

#

 

Hermione saw Lucius go down. Harry certainly had no reservations about killing at this point. But then, neither did she.

They still needed more time—or at least she assumed they did. They ought to receive a message when the ritual was ready. They ought to be getting close. How much longer would it be? Fifteen minutes? Thirty?

The Death Eaters probably meant to corner them in the back of the keep, she thought, or drive them out through the boathouse. At least, she guessed the rank and file thought that. Riddle knew about the drainage tunnels under the school, and he probably knew that the younger children were still in here. Horcrux aside, did he mean to capture the children from them and so acquire the ultimate leverage? Did he simply mean to capture the castle and deny those who escaped the last stronghold—the last safe place in Britain?

And what of the horcrux itself? He could well have visited the Room of Requirement by now and found it gone, what with the East Wing emptied. Had he checked on the others? Did he know he was mortal now? Hermione hoped he thought he had at least one left—the cup—which would not have appeared to be harmed by her spell, although perhaps it would be better if he had reason to hold back. The trouble was, what if he looked for the diadem and found it gone? He might well slaughter the entire castle in a blind rage. He’d be ruling over a heap of ash if he did that, with every child in the country from eleven to eighteen dead, but Riddle didn’t seem particularly sane to her at this point.

It was a question she had no good answer to. And now, a lot of the inner circle Death Eaters were on the front lines, and the casualties were continuing to mount. She threw out spell after spell, trying to take them down. Parvati was duelling Macnair on one side; Dean was fighting Mulciber on another. There was a shriek, and a spray of blood struck Hermione’s face as some Death Eater landed a curse on Professor Sprout that cut her throat. Hermione choked back a gasp and tried to stay focus while Neville ran to help her. She doubted he could do anything.

Dolohov was ploughing forward to the front line, coming straight for her.

“Hermione!” George yelled as he tried to reach her.

She heard a sickening crack, and Ron went down with a broken leg. Dolohov turned aside from her and advance on Ron instead with a wicked grin.

“No you don’t, you bastard! _Confringo!_ ” Seamus Finnigan jumped between Ron and Dolohov, wand blazing, and to Hermione’s surprise, he held his own pretty well.

“Seamus?” Ron said in surprise.

“I won’ turn me back on you again, Ron,” he said. “I won’t be a coward this time.”

“Then you’ll be a fool,” Dolohov growled. “ _Avada Kedavra!_ _”_

Seamus rolled, pushing Ron out of the way with him. Ron had enough momentum to get away, but Seamus was left on his back foot. He scrambled halfway to his feet and got about two more spells off before Dolohov’s next Killing Curse struck true.

Fred and George jumped in front of Dolohov next, flourishing their wands like expert swordsmen. Hermione moved to help them, but a hand pulled her back. It was McGonagall. “Miss Granger, go check on Professor Babbling again,” she whispered urgently.

“But—” she started.

“They can handle themselves,” McGonagall guessed her meaning.

Macnair threw a knife. Parvati’s shield slipped, and it stuck into her chest. The wound started smoking.

 _“PARVATI!”_ Ron cried out. He started crawling to reach his onetime-girlfriend. Hermione broke away from McGonagall and threw up a heavy shield to get close enough to her roommate to help. By they time they pulled her back behind the line, though, she could tell it was too late. “Parvati! No, dammit!” Ron groaned. Padma sobbed over her sister’s body, heedless of the had blood trickling down her own face.

_“HANNAH!”_

Hermione looked up and saw Susan Bones standing over a fallen and lifeless Hannah Abbott. She saw Stephen Cornfoot and Oliver Rivers fighting side by side. Moments later, Oliver fell.

_Then two men will be in the field; one will be taken and one left. Two women will be grinding at the mill; one will be taken and one left._

The Twins were still locked in battle with Dolohov. “We can’t hold out like this!” she cried out, not caring who heard.

“Back to the tower!” McGongall shouted.

“George! Fred!” Hermione called. She had to help them. She tried to reach them.

She was stopped by a blinding flash of light. The floor shook and cracked. Someone tried to pull her back, but she shoved them off. She had to get to George!

Only, when the spots faded from her eyes, she had quite the shock. Unlike their uncles, George and Fred had more than wands up their sleeves. The flash had been one of their prank products, and they must have used a dozen more in half as many seconds. Dolohov now made a very colourful corpse, and George and Fred were still standing tall.

“C’mon! We’ve gotta get out of here!” George said without missing a beat. He grabbed her arm and pulled her along.

The defenders retreated into the Great Tower and tried to seal it off from the west corridor, but that was easier said than done. The Death Eaters wedged open the door and started streaming in after them. Worse yet, Hermione heard fighting off to her right. She looked and saw the other group of defenders pouring in from the south corridor, trying to stop the Death Eaters from coming in after them. They must have been pushed all the way through Ravenclaw Tower. They were cornered. After all this, Riddle wouldn’t even need to attack himself. If they couldn’t secure the Great Tower, there was no way they could complete the ritual before the Death Eaters got to the Anchor Stones.

Suddenly, there was a loud hissing like shifting sand coming from above. The Death Eaters and defenders alike looked up to see what was happening. For a moment, Hermione was back in the nightmarish maze she’d dreamt about three years ago, the dark, shapeless form of a Shoggoth of the Elder things bearing down on them. But there were no dread cries of _tekeli-li_ here. This wasn’t a Shoggoth; it was the final state of the twisted space and magic at the top of the Great Tower, animated by McGonagall’s spell. Coming fast down the Grand Staircase was a tidal wave of dust and sand. If she had to compare it to something, she would say it was like a giant dust bunny crossed with the Blob—far larger than the individual statues. Friend and foe alike fled from its advance. When it reached the second floor, it divided into two sand-like blobs and pursued the now-retreating Death Eaters. It poured into the corridors, reaching tendrils across the floor to catch them by the ankles and pull them into its bulk. In moments, it glided completely through the doors on both sides and slammed them behind it.

Hermione leaned against the railing of the staircase where she stood, exhausted from the continuous fighting. She laughed briefly and shouted “ _Tekeli-li_ , you bastards!” Then, she whispered to the walls, “Thank you, Hogwarts. We might have a chance, now.”

She thought she felt the staircase vibrate in acknowledgement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was hoping some people would make McGonagall’s mistake about the ritual rather than immediately getting the right answer of killing everyone born on that day, but I suppose I should congratulate those readers on their attentiveness.


	79. Chapter 79

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Tuba mirum spargens sonum, per sepulchra regionum, coget omnes (cum JK Rowling) ante thronum.
> 
> Surprise! I got this chapter done faster than I expected. The next one will probably be in two weeks, though, just because it’s very complicated.
> 
> A number of people have criticised Hermione’s reticence to kill in the context of causing greater harm down the road. I think this is unfair. As Hermione told Dumbledore at the end of fifth year, you don’t shoot to kill; you shoot to stop the threat. For muggles, this means shooting a gun at the centre of mass and probably killing, but for wizards, it means shooting a bunch of powerful curses to break through shields and probably incapacitate. And even then, Death Eaters in a group are actually kind of hard to put down, especially when you’re outnumbered. Hermione also will not kill an enemy who is disarmed and incapacitated, because that is illegal in the muggle world, or at least borderline illegal. That may not be the most effective way to fight, but we have those rules for good reasons, and Hermione was raised to follow them.
> 
> Big thanks to Gofanon for helping me with the Hebrew in this chapter.

Neville stood before a tear-stricken Luna. His Gran was dead. Cut down by Rodolphus Lestrange. And Luna was a killer. Yes, it was war, and yes, it was justified, but _Luna?_ She was too gentle a soul for that. Right now, she could barely even speak.

“Your dad?” Neville asked worriedly. He hadn’t seen him with the others.

Luna’s face tightened. She squeezed her eyes shut and shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and he wrapped his arms around her tight. They stood there a minute, trying to hold onto this momentary quiet—to find just a few seconds to grieve.

A loud boom shook the Great Tower. The moving staircases swayed. It wasn’t over. Would never be over unless they finished it here and now.

“We’ve bought a few minutes, but it won’t last long,” McGonagall said. She looked around at the defenders scattered over a dozen flights of stairs on three different floors. “Miss Granger, Mr. Potter, you need to go back down and do what you came to do as quickly as possible. There’s no time to waste. The rest of you! We must stop the Death Eaters from getting to them.”

Hermione, Harry, and Ginny grabbed a couple brooms and dropped down to the basement while everyone else took their places to defend against the inevitable attack. They could hear screams from the corridors, but Neville had no illusions that that blob-thing would stop all of them. He shuddered. What the hell _was_ that? Hermione seemed to know, but she hadn’t told anyone.

The Grand Staircase was cooperating. It had shifted back so that none of the stairs reached the doors that the Death Eaters had tried to come through. It wasn’t perfect; there were other doorways, and the stairs couldn’t pull away from all of them, but it would slow them down. People started transfiguring the banisters to make them taller and close the gaps to provide more cover. The walls were still shaking from the external assault, but Neville was more worried about the doors.

It took a few minutes for the pounding to start, and then a few more minutes for the doors to be blasted inward. One of them flew clear across the staircase and smashed against the opposite wall. Death Eaters ran out onto the landings but promptly stopped and backed up when they saw there were no stairs there and took cover behind the door frames.

Neville didn’t see any big names in the group that was casting curses at them, but that didn’t make them any less dangerous. The arrangement of the battlefield was in the defenders’ favour, but that situation couldn’t continue for long. Soon, he heard banging above him, and another door blasted inward. Three Death Eaters scrambled onto the the staircase he was standing on. The staircase started to swing around in a pattern he didn’t fully understand, and all of them staggered against the railing. Neville, Dean, and Lavender faced off against the three Death Eaters as they spun around. Under their attack, one was thrown clear over the railing and fell to the floor forty feet below with a crunch. Lavender was knocked down the stairs, but came to a stop against the railing. Dean then shielded while Neville cast defensive spells, and a second Death Eater fell. Then, Neville got a look at the third one’s face: Rabastan Lestrange.

A bolt of lightning lanced out and barely missed Neville. It struck Lavender instead, and she screamed, even as she threw a Scouring Hex back at him. Neville saw red. Heedless to the danger, he advanced, dodging one spell and shielding another with Dean struggling to keep up. Rabastan backed against the railing, but there was nowhere for him to go. Coming up from below, Dean hooked a conjured chain around his ankle and pulled him off his feet, giving Neville a chance to close the distance.

“This is for my family!” he shouted, and he slashed with his wand, breaking Rabastan’s neck.

Neville looked up. The staircases were moving faster than he’d ever seen them, constantly shifting the battlefield and throwing off avenues of attack. Some of them were even changing floors, flattening out and thrusting their steps up or down in the other direction. Somehow, they didn’t crash into each other. Still, the battle was complete chaos around him in all three dimensions.

He checked on Lavender. She was alive and conscious, but she had a nasty, lightning shaped burn on her face—not like the one on Harry’s head (and Ginny’s, somehow), but a long, jagged, ropey thing that extended over the side of her face and down her neck under her shirt. She looked angry more than anything else.

The staircase they were on shifted and pushed them up a floor. Neville looked down over the railing and saw Ron, Daphne, and Tracey fighting Pansy Parkinson, Theo Nott, and Elizabeth Runcorn. Students, all of them, but very dangerous. He was shocked when he saw Parkinson snap off a Killing Curse, targeted at Daphne. Ron tackled Daphne, rolling them both out of the way.

“Thanks,” Daphne breathed.

“Where’s Potter?! I’m gonna kill him!” Parkinson shouted.

Neville started casting down from above. The Death Eaters found themselves in a crossfire and backed up. Nott went down, disarmed, but Parksinson was vicious, and Runcorn was probably the cleverest of them.

 _“TRACEY!”_ Daphne screamed as Parkinson’s curse connected with her friend and threw her over the railing. Tracey fell, and her back was broken on the railing of the staircase below before she dropped again to the floor.

There was a flash of spells, and Neville couldn’t tell who did it, but in moments, Parkinson was dead. Runcorn stood alone, then. She looked back and forth at the three wands pointed at her, and she turned and ran.

 _“Stop them!”_ someone yelled from above. Neville looked up and saw two Death Eaters following Harry’s lead and flying down the staircase on broomsticks. Half a dozen people tried to hex them on the way down, but they didn’t stop to fight. They kept going and blasted through the door to the subbasement where Harry, Ginny, and Hermione had gone. He could only hope they could handle themselves down there.

More broom riders came from above, but they were ready for them this time, and they couldn’t get through the gauntlet. But there was another problem. Death Eaters had broken through to the lower levels and were trying to come out under the defenders. Neville didn’t slid down the banister to the next floor with coordination he didn’t know he possessed. The staircase shifted so fast it whipped him around to the next one, and he nearly lost his grip. He barely caught hold of the post and turned onto the next flight, which he slid down again. That staircase tossed him onto a third flight, which he slid down to the ground floor.

The castle was really trying to help, he thought, sending him where he needed to go—that is until he realised he was in front of a pile of rubble and blue-stained viscera blocking the way into the Entrance Hall—on the opposite side of the tower from the fight. He turned and vomited at the smell. And then it got worse. A creeping sense of cold and despair came over him. He looked up in horror and saw dementors crawling over the pile—the one way they could actually get into the castle on the ground floor.

 _“Expecto Patronum!”_ He cast. Flicker. “Damn. Always have trouble with this one,” he muttered. Not to mention that to say he was having a bad day was an understatement. He thought of Luna and his hope for the future and tried again: _“Expecto Patronum!”_ His mongoose Patronus burst forth and pushed the dementors back. Soon, others joined it, and then a blinding-bright goat charged forward and head-butted the lead dementor, and all of the demons recoiled from it.

“I’ve got this. Go!” Aberforth Dumbledore ordered. Had the old bartender been holding out on them?

Neville didn’t question it. He ran back into the fray, but the next thing he knew, Hermione popped up on a broom. “Anthony’s down for the count!” she yelled. “Can anyone else speak Hebrew?”

_What?_

“I can!” Luna called. “A little…I know the sounds, anyway.”

“Good enough,” Hermione said. She grabbed Luna and pulled her onto the broom before disappearing into the subbasement again.

_What?_

* * *

Hermione was incredibly relieved that the Death Eaters who had broken into the basement hadn’t damaged any of the runes. Of course, they probably knew that casting curses down around the Anchor Stones was a dangerous prospect. Unfortunately, Anthony was out cold from a stray hex and didn’t look like he’d be getting up anytime soon. In desperation, she flew up and grabbed Luna, since Hebrew spellcrafting was apparently a rare skill even among Ancient Runes students. She wasn’t surprised that Luna was the first volunteer. She knew the girl was something of a polyglot. She dove down far faster than she felt comfortable and rejoined Harry, Ginny, and the others in the inner circle.

“Okay, we’re going to have to do this fast,” she said. “The rest of you, go up and help the others. Don’t let the Death Eaters get down here. We have to make sure we can see this through to the end. If the ritual is interrupted, even I don’t knew what will happen.”

 _“What?!”_ Professor Babbling shouted.

“Hey, I hadn’t got that far yet!” she protested. “At least I got the ritual finished in time.”

“Dammit, Granger, that’s something you should say upfront.”

Hermione grumbled: “Are you in or out, Professor?”

Babbling sighed. “I’m in.”

“Good.” She turned to Luna and handed her a parchment with the words of the ritual on it. “Luna, this is what we’re doing. This ritual is designed to kill Riddle at a distance, but it’s messy. It will bring a curse on the day he was born, and it will kill every magic being and beast in the British Isles that was born on that day.”

Luna’s eyes grew wide. “Are you sure about this Hermione? You could kill innocent people, and that could have serious consequences.”

“I know,” she said. “I looked at the records, and I’m reasonably sure there were no other intelligent beings born on that day. There’s a chance there are animals, but it was seventy-one years ago, so it won’t be many.”

“And what happens if you’re wrong, Miss Granger?” Babbling asked pointedly.

Hermione lowered her gaze slightly. “That’s the uncertain part,” she said. “The ritual has a sort of…wager to it, for lack of a better word. It weighs the lives of the things to be destroyed against the lives of the casters.”

The others were tense at that. That wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to hear about a ritual. Luna was curious, though. “How is that decided?” she asked. “I don’t know if we can match You-Know-Who’s power, even with five of us.”

“It’s not magical power,” she said. “It’s not raw numbers, either. It’s…I’m not even sure if there’s a word for it. Worthiness, you might call it, but… it’s measured by ourselves. If we believe our cause is just—if we believe the relatively small risk of killing innocents as collateral is worth it—the ritual will work. If we made a mistake, and there are a lot more innocents affected that we thought…we die.”

Ginny’s eyebrows shot up. “You didn’t mention that before,” she said.

“It’s not very likely. The key is, it’s filtered through the Anchor Stones themselves.”

“What does that mean?” Harry finally spoke up.

“It means Hogwarts is nearly sentient.” She motioned to the circles around them. “It’s not in a way we’re familiar with, but these rune stones have an alignment all their own, and that alignment is tilted to the Light. It will give a boost to our side of the wager. If Riddle tried to use this ritual to kill _you_ , Harry, he _probably_ could, but the Anchor Stones would work against him, exponentially increasing the risk that it would fail.”

She looked between her four would-be co-casters, praying they were still in. Harry shrugged. “Riddle’s going to kill me anyway,” he said. “It’s this or abandon Hogwarts, and I’m not doing that.”

“If Harry’s in, I’m in,” Ginny said.

“I have my duty to the school,” Babbling said firmly.

Hermione turned to Luna. “Luna, if you don’t want to do this, I can find someone else,” she said.

Luna shook her head: “There’s no time. It’s only…what’s the cost. A ritual this powerful must need a very powerful sacrifice.”

“There are four,” Hermione said solemnly. “A day’s light, a night’s joy, rousing the Leviathan…and a year of our lives.”

The others already knew that, but Ginny still had questions. “I still don’t get how that works,” she said. “Will it make us a year older or something?”

“No. It’s like any other time you sacrifice a part of yourself. If it’s a sacrifice of blood, your body becomes very slightly less efficient at producing blood. If it’s a sacrifice of time…you age slightly faster. Since we probably all have a century of healthy life ahead, it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make.” A bit of a stretch, but it wasn’t like they would have to kill a dark lord every year, or even every decade if they actually got their act together. In any case, accepting one percent poorer health—or in Babbling’s case, maybe one point two percent—was a small price to pay when so many people had lost their lives in this war, and she could see the others agreed. “Okay, best not waste any more time, then,” she said. “Take your places on the pentagram.”

The five of them spread out in a pentagon just inside the inner stone circle, nearly thirty feet wide. All of them except Hermione held copies of the ritual in front of them. Hermione wore Ravenclaw’s diadem to ensure she remembered perfectly.

“We don’t need any proper spells or implements to do this, so just make sure to stay there—and stay on rhythm.” She raised wand and cast, _“Metronomos.”_ A mysterious ticking noise filled the chamber. That sounded more ominous than she’d intended. Maybe there was already a spell for that, but it wasn’t important. She holstered her wand to avoid interference, but kept her hand raised like the conductor of an orchestra and led the chant:

_“Ligate scripta judicii pro dies luctae.”_

The pentagram on the floor and the related runes began glowing with a harsh white light. Normally, white was a good colour, but there was something more dangerous about this light. An almost electric charge of energy filled the air.

Hermione raised her hands, and the others followed suit. _“Nos iactamus aleam et ea ligamus vitae nostris.”_

Golden cords wrapped around their wrists, connecting each of them to the others. There was something even more dangerous about these cords. The felt like hot wires around Hermione’s wrists. The others flinched, but thankfully didn’t go off the script. Now, it was time for the core ritual:

_“Yovad yom Tom Marvolo Riddle bo nolad vehalaylah amar horah gaver.”_

An enormous pulse of magical energy exploded from the the centre of the circle and washed over them. The power nearly knocked them off their feet. For a moment, Hermione felt she would be crushed by the sheer weight of magic. The light was blinding, though it dissipated as it spread, and the castle shook to its foundations.

* * *

Until this moment, Lord Voldemort had been having a good night—a welcome change from the day before. His beloved Nagini was dead, another piece of his soul lost. His only consolation was that Potter and Granger had been driven away before they could harm the Cup of Helga Hufflepuff, but he had thought his horcruxes safe, even after Granger’s suspicious behaviour at Malfoy Manor. He had immediately checked on the others…and disaster. The Gaunt Family Ring had been taken from his family’s shack. Worse, the Locket of Salazar Slytherin was gone from the sea cave. Even Dumbledore should have had a hard time finding that one. Or had Regulus found out?

The Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw was his other remaining horcrux, hidden safe within Hogwarts where only he knew about it. The fact that Potter had beat him to the castle was worrying, but from what he could gather, the boy hadn’t even tried to seek out the Room of Hidden Things. Thus, he could be reasonably assured that he had two anchors to life remaining.

Not that he would use the excuse to take chances. The blood traitors had even gone so far as to shoot him with a muggle rifle, but he had long since prepared for that. No, he would let his Death Eaters handle this. He would have entered the fray if it had seemed he needed to, but now they had nearly secured the entire castle. Losses had been heavy, but the defenders were cornered. Soon, the last resistance of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore’s pathetic Army would be cut down, and he would have Potter beg him for death.

That was, until he felt the pulse of magic explode from the castle like nothing he’d ever felt before. It washed over him like a physical blow and rattled his nerves even worse. Voldemort had never experienced the sensation the muggles called, _someone walking over his grave_ , but that was exactly what he felt now—five someones, in fact. He could see them in his mind. Five witches and wizards standing in a circle, and all of seemed as if they were looking him in the eye. One of them was Potter. He would have ignored the others, except the second one he saw was Granger.

And she was _wearing_ Ravenclaw’s Diadem.

Tom Riddle felt true fear for the first time since his resurrection. Granger wore the diadem and wore it like a queen—utterly comfortable—powerful— _deadly_. There was nothing of himself in those eyes—no possession. She was using the diadem as it was originally intended—a weapon he himself had been unable to wield. And what was more, she had somehow found a way to remove his horcrux without destroying it, and that meant she might very well have done the same to Hufflepuff’s Cup. He might well be without any horcruxes remaining.

Whatever they were doing down there, he had to stop them, at any cost. Lord Voldemort took to the air and flew towards the castle.

* * *

Hermione saw the vision, the same as the others. Tom Riddle looking her in the eye with rage and terror. The one good thing was that it was only his eyes they saw. There was no one else under the doom of the ritual. In that respect, they were safe. Only, they had to finish this fast.

_“Hayom hahu yehi choshek al-yidreshehu Eloah mima’al ve’al-topha ala neharah.”_

Another pulse of magic raced out. The light of the Anchor Stones dimmed. Only the pattern on the floor retained its full brightness.

* * *

At the Ministry of Magic in London, alarms were ringing. The rune stone network was going crazy. The few wizards on the night shift looked at each other helplessly. They’d never seen anything like this. The even fewer Unspeakables in the building wouldn’t be able to parse what was happening until it was over, but they knew it was bad.

In muggle London, the only people who really remarked the sudden change in the weather were the weather forecasters on the night shift, when the satellite feeds began to show an unnatural heavy overcast forming over the whole of the British Isles.

* * *

_“Yigaluhu choshek vetsalmavet tishkah-ala ananah yeva’atuhu kimrire yom.”_

* * *

Neville saw a blond-haired man with a potbelly disembowelled by Mulciber. Grawp picked up Mulciber and threw him out a window. Flitwick pulled the blond man back and started closing the wound. They still had the advantage that the Death Eaters were forced to come in a few at a time, and a lot of the inner circle had already been killed or incapacitated, but it was still bad. Bellatrix Lestrange was duelling three people at once and holding her own. Neville tried to get to her, but he was having trouble getting through the crowd.

That was when the first pulse of magic made _everything_ stop.

With the second pulse, the torches went nearly dark, casting barely enough light to see the tower.

With the third pulse, a chill came over the Tower. For a moment, Neville thought the dementors were back, but this was different—not despair, but raw _fear_ as if some great doom were about to come down on them all. Was this Hermione’s ritual? What was it _doing?_

The majority of the Death Eaters fled under the weight of what was coming. Most of the rest turned away from the defenders and forced their way down. They had been trying to reach the kitchens and the makeshift infirmary in the Hufflepuff dorms, but now, they blasted through anyone who got in their way in a blind panic to reach the subbasement.

* * *

_“Halaylah yiqachehu ophel al-yichad bime shanah bemispar yerachim al-yavo.”_

* * *

The fear in the air turned back to despair as Tonks looked out across the grounds. Something was gravely wrong—or, if they were very lucky, gravely _right_. She prayed it was Hermione’s ritual that had made the lights of Hogwarts go dark. This wasn’t the all-consuming despair of the dementors’ aura. No, this was an indefinable feeling that tonight was the worst of all nights for some supernatural reason that had nothing to do with the battle.

She stood on the lake shore, just outside the training grounds. They’d got all the children out, by some miracle, but they were just now clear of the castle and on level ground where they could get back to Hogsmeade—she hoped.

Except now, she heard the sound of screaming. The less devoted parts of Voldemort’s army were fleeing in terror—and half of them were headed right toward them.

“Everybody run!” she cried.

* * *

Hermione could hear a door smash in far above, but she kept up with the ritual. They couldn’t stop now.

_“Hineh halaylah hahu yehi galmud al-tavo renanah bo.”_

* * *

Lord Voldemort flew in through one of the holes that had been opened in the roof of the Great Tower. He strongly considered casting Fiendfyre down at the defenders and wiping them out in one fell swoop. But no. He could tell this was a powerful ritual, and mixing such powerful dark magic as Fiendfyre with it and possibly destroying the Anchor Stones could have even worse consequences. Besides, with so many of his enemies in one place opposing him, they just might be able to contain it.

He conjured a whirlwind around him. He would plough through the defenders at speed, which would be nearly as fast as the Fiendfyre, and straight down to where Potter was before they could hit him. None of them would use _Avada Kedavra_ even on him, and he was confident he could block anything else.

* * *

 _“Hava vanekalel hayom_ _ha_ _’atidim orer Livyatan.”_

* * *

Beneath the surface of the Black Lake, an ancient beast older than Hogwarts itself awoke in a rage. It powered through a crowd of fleeing merpeople as it began to swim for the shore, lashing out with its many tentacles at anything that moved.

* * *

Death Eaters raced down the stairs to the Anchor Stones. They cast curses, but they again limited their spells. It was too dangerous to damage the stones, most of all during such a dread ritual. It matter little as the air swirled around the five casters, and the hexes went wide.

_“Yechsheku kochbe nishpo yeqa-le’or va’ayin ve’al-yireh be’aph’ape-shachar.”_

* * *

The defenders looked up in terror as a tornado descended through the Great Tower. It ripped the portraits from the walls and kicked up rubble and even bodies and whipped them around in a cloud. And in the centre of the maelstrom— _him_. Voldemort himself, eyes glowing red with rage, flying as fast as a broomstick straight down to where Harry Potter was.

A Blasting Curse of terrifying power blew a hole in the floor of the tower, opening the way. The defenders could do nothing but shield themselves against the flying debris. The torches all blew out. The darkness grew deeper, and all hope seemed lost _._

* * *

 

_“Ki lo sagar delet bitnecha, vayester amal mieineynu!”_

The last pulse of magic felt like scorching flames blasting out from the centre of the circle. The cords binding the five casters snapped, all five of them were knocked flat on their backs, and the glowing runes winked out.

The Death Eaters stopped in their tracks, each one holding their left arm as a burning sensation shot through it as the magic in it was spent.

The whirlwind stopped, and the debris fell, littering the floor of the Great Tower.

Hermione, Harry, Ginny, Luna, and Bathsheda Babbling had just enough time to look up and scream before Tom Riddle fell in the centre of the circle. He was dead before he hit the floor.

“He’s dead,” Harry said, as if he couldn’t believe it himself.

 _He_ _’s dead,_ Hermione thought. _It_ _’s over._

High above, there was a roar of cheering. The rest of the defenders understood. It was over. Except…

 _“POTTER!”_ a voice shrieked.

“It’s not over,” Hermione breathed.

“Bellatrix!” Harry hissed.

“Brooms!”

The five of them scrambled to get onto their…two brooms. Damn. Babbling didn’t have one of her own, but when they looked at her, they saw she was in no condition to travel.

“Professor! What happened?” Hermione gasped.

In the faint wandlight, the curse that had afflicted Professor Babbling all night had changed. It was in her blood, now, the veins turning black under her skin and spreading fast. “The sacrifice,” she choked out.

“No!” Hermione said. “The ageing factor shouldn’t have affected the curse!”

Babbling shook her head. “The _other_ sacrifice.”

Hermione blanked for a moment before it hit her. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”

“It’s okay,” Babbling said. “I knew this would happen…Worth it to…end him.”

Her body went limp. Hermione was dazed for a moment before Harry slapped her on the shoulder, and the sound of renewed fighting above. “We’ll get her later! Go!” he said.

“What sacrifice?” Ginny demanded as they mounted their brooms—her and Harry, and Hermione and Luna.

“A night’s joy,” Hermione said quickly as they took off, leaving Babbling’s body down with Riddle’s. “Great misfortune will fall on the casters until the next sunrise. Luckily, that’s _today_ _’s_ sunrise, even though we won’t see it through the clouds, which is only in about an hour.”

“Except we have to survive an angry Bellatrix that long,” Ginny pointed out.

Yeah, there was that.

When they popped up through the hole, Bellatrix was there, and fire swirled around her—not the inferno that Riddle could produce, but enough. She was trying to fight her way down to the subbasement against the Order and the tide of her onetime allies fleeing the other way. She stopped when she saw them.

About a dozen of Riddle’s most hardened fighters remained—the Azkaban escapees, mostly—people who had nothing left to lose. The rest had fled when they saw Riddle die, but these were the worst of the worst, and Bellatrix was easily worth half a dozen ordinary dark witches all by herself.

“Potter!” she cried rabidly. “You—you—this isn’t possible!”

Harry shook his head and tried the dubious tactic of talking: “It is, Bellatrix. Tom never heard the rest of the prophecy: _And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not. And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives._ ”

With an incoherent scream of rage, Bellatrix lashed out with a whip of fire. Harry, Ginny, Hermione, and Luna darted out of the way, but both of their brooms were set on fire, and they had to jump off them. She advanced on them, and Hermione saw that she had two wands now—stolen one off a body, no doubt.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

Killing Curses shot out from both wands at once, expertly aimed at Harry and Hermione. Both of them rolled out of the way. Fred and George ran in and stood by Hermione’s side. The three of them tried to hold Bellatrix back while Harry and Ginny slipped up the stairs. They dodged Killing Curse after Killing Curse, blocked other dark curses of terrible power, and shot curses back to try to distract her from Harry.

They were only partially successful. Bellatrix still ran after Harry, but as she did, she casually cast a Killing Curse off to the side that came so close to Fred that Hermione feared it had hit him before she saw he was still standing. That was the moment when, addled by sleep deprivation, the exhaustion of the battle, and the whirlwind of sensations from Ravenclaw’s Diadem, Hermione finally snapped.

_“NOT MY BROTHER, YOU BITCH!”_

Bellatrix stopped and turned. “Brother?” she said incredulously. She didn’t even look to put up a shield that blocked Harry’s and Ginny’s curses, and she dodged expertly when they tried to slip around it.

Hermione held up her left hand, showing her engagement ring proudly.

“Ooh, so you think you’re moving up in the world, mudblood?”

Hermione clenched her fist and held her arm at an angle where Bellatrix could see the _MUDBLOOD_ scar flaunted before her. “You won’t touch them,” she said. “Any of them.”

Bellatrix cackled. “And you think you can stop me this time, little girl?”

“Yes. You know the power the Dark Lord knew not?” Hermione said. _“It’s me!”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Metronomos: Greek for “measure regulation,” the origin of the word “metronome.”
> 
> Ligate scripta iudicii pro dies luctae: Latin for “Bind the writings of judgement for the day of mourning.”
> 
> Nos iactamus aleam et ea ligamus vitae nostris: Latin for “We cast the die and bind our lives to it.”


	80. Chapter 80

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Mors stupebit et natura, cum resurget creatura, Judicanti responsura. Thus saith JK Rowling (or maybe Thomas of Celano).
> 
> There were a lot of questions about the what the ritual means, but the answer is, you’ve already seen it. It was Job 3:3-10 in the original Hebrew, of which I gave the full translation in Chapter 71. Hermione only made a few changes to put it in the third person. Also, the Leviathan is the Giant Squid, for those who were confused. See the discussion on elementals in Chapter 40.
> 
> Well, I finally did it…I broke my own rule. I have a strict rule that no chapter may be longer than 10,000 words—something that started at 8,000 and gradually crept up. But this one weighs in at over 12,000 words. I know many people like longer chapters, but I don’t. The ideal chapter for me is 5,000-7,000 words, similar to the books. I frequently fail to meet that standard, but too much just drags on too long.
> 
> However, one important lesson I’ve learnt in my writing career is the value of strategically breaking the rules for dramatic effect. Many over-long chapters makes a story really drag (something I’m well aware I’m already guilty of). But one over-long chapter? That can work. When it comes down to it, I believe that to break this chapter into two would not do it justice because you really have to experience the marathon Hermione goes through here for yourself. Enjoy.

It was only when Bellatrix threw a Killing Curse at her that Hermione considered that the sacrifice of the ritual, bringing great misfortune on her until sunrise, may have influenced her to be reckless enough to challenge the madwoman in the first place.

She ran.

She was still wearing Ravenclaw’s Diadem, which was both a blessing and a curse. Her senses were still sharpened—so sharpened that she could feel dark aura that signalled the approach of a Killing Curse from behind and dodge it. But it also meant she was constantly on the edge of sensory overload and could be easily distracted in a critical moment.

 _“Nubes Minuta!”_ she cast, creating a fog screen to shield her from Bellatrix’s view to buy her a few seconds. Her priority was Harry and Ginny—probably Luna too depending how much Bellatrix understood. “Come on!” she hissed, and she pushed Harry and Ginny along. They started to follow, but then they stumbled.

“What—?”

 _“Gah!”_ They went down on the stairs, flailing their limbs.

“Harry! Ginny!”

Fred and George hurried to help them, and Arthur and Molly were pushing down the stairs to reach them and pull them up.

 _“Deletrius!”_ Bellatrix shouted, dispelling the cloud cover. She saw Harry stuck flailing on the ground and took aim. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Fred pulled him out of the way just in time, but the impact pelted them with shards of stone.

 _Vanderwalis! Incendio! Diffindo!_ Hermione thought, trying to hold Bellatrix in place. The others were pummelling her with spells too, and between the lot of them, they successfully bound her and pulled Harry and Ginny up the stairs. “What happened?” she gasped.

“Some—”

“—thing—”

“—wrong!”

“Can’t—”

“—see—”

“—talk—”

“—move—”

“—straight.”

Harry and Ginny stammered, unable to speak normally, the twin-speak trick they had worked on seemingly stuck in high gear. They gestured clumsily with each other, trying to some strange interaction between them. Hermione could only guess that the “light horcrux” connection between them (that really needed a better name) was somehow going haywire, causing them to lose control of their own bodies.

“Get them to safety!” she yelled. She pulled Luna in a different direction, hoping they could lure Bellatrix away from their friends without getting themselves killed.

“Move the prisoners out!” McGonagall called over the shouts of the crowd. There were still other Death Eaters around, but they were outnumbered and held at wandpoint, and _everyone_ looked a little cowed by Bellatrix’s viciousness. An explosion sounded below as the madwoman broke free of her bonds.

The battlefield seemed to shift subtly. Though not by anyone’s intention, most of the allies who could have helped Hermione and Luna seemed to melt away dealing with other crises. They found themselves at the doorway to the Entrance Hall, without an easy route to the rest of the castle, with only Neville and a couple others with them. There was a mound of debris and acromantula parts blocking the doorway. Hermione pointed her wand.

 _“Hermione! Wait!”_ Neville shouted.

_Depulso!_

The debris blasted away under the strength of her Banishing Charm—not the whole pile, but an opening large enough to jump through. It was only then that she saw what was on the other side.

Dementors.

They quickly looked back for another way.

 _“Out of my way!”_ Bellatrix shrieked from below. _“She’s mine!”_ They could hear her running up the stairs.

“No time!” Hermione shouted. _“Expecto Patronum!”_

_“Expecto Patronum!”_

_“Expecto…Patronum…”_

Her otter and Neville’s mongoose appeared, forcing the dementors back. Luna was struggling, so they kept her between them as they ran for the Great Hall.

_BOOM!_

And explosion blew Hermione off her feet and she tumbled across the floor. She shook her head and struggled to get up.

“There you are, Granger,” Bellatrix sneered as she stepped into the Entrance Hall, casting her enchanted fire to ring the room from both of her wands.

But Hermione was looking past her, to where Neville and Luna had fallen, separate from each other. She heard Luna crying, _“Expecto…Expecto…”_ in a high pitched whine while Neville struggled to get up and protect both of them. His gaze and his Patronus wavered as he spotted Bellatrix with hatred in his eyes.

That was all it took. A dementor loomed over Luna, breaking her feeble Patronus, and raised her head to its own.

 _“LUNA!”_ Hermione screamed, throwing a Banishing Charm her way, but it was too late. A wave of utter revulsion washed over her from the dementor as it performed the Kiss. Even Bellatrix halted in her steps when she felt it and stopped to look. The dark magic was palpable—worse than the last time. Hermione’s body reacted as if she were witnessing the most depraved torture imaginable. Her stomach heaved, but her retching brought up only bile, and she nearly collapsed from despair.

It was done. Luna’s body dropped to the floor like a rag doll. It was only then that another Patronus entered the room (she doubted anyone inside would be able to cast one now), and Aberforth Dumbledore ran into the hall. The dementor retreated from Luna’s body.

And then, a flash of insight fuelled by Ravenclaw’s diadam hit Hermione like a bolt of lightning. _“NO!”_ she screamed, calling the attention of everyone in the hall. She jumped to her feet and pointed at Aberforth and Neville. “Hold that dementor, and keep her body alive! I don’t care what you have to do; just do it!”

Aberforth and Neville stared at her a moment before the goat Patronus split into two and circled around the dementor to keep it contained. Bellatrix merely cocked her head at Hermione as if she were a particularly interesting insect. “You think you’re going to save your little friend from _that_ , mudblood?” she said in her baby-talk voice.

“I _think_ I’m going to _unmake_ you!” Hermione snarled, and she took aim. Ravenclaw’s diadem gave her one additional skill that she hadn’t appreciated until this moment. She could cast two unrelated spells at the same time with her two wands flawlessly—and by necessity nonverbally. She cast _Dasask Cohaerens_ with one hand and _Didumosa Tacheia_ with the other and turned on her heel and ran. She wasn’t sure if the Taser Hex hit, but the Dazzling Jinx should at least disorient her for a moment. She ran into the Great Hall and cast _Calcifrango_ at the doorway behind her, bringing part of the structure down.

 _Non Illudere! Silencio!_ Hermione Disillusioned and Silenced herself as she reached the little door that let up to the house elf quarters. They were far too cramped to crawl through normally, but…

“This is either a really good idea or a really bad idea,” she muttered silently. _Capacious Extremis!_

It worked. The Undetectable Extension Charm wouldn’t hold long on a space that wasn’t meant for it, and not cast properly besides, but it did its job of giving her enough space to run up the stairs and through the hallways that she would normally have to crawl through. She cast _Lokutharmeth_ behind her to seal the door. A minute later, she stood in the Elves’ Common Room, panting for breath, finally taking a moment to think.

 _Great misfortune will befall the casters until sunrise._ Hermione paled as she remembered her words. Professor Babbling had succumbed to a Necrotising Curse that she otherwise would have survived (and she had done the maths and knew it would happen, no less). Harry and Ginny had had something go wrong with their connection. Luna had been Kissed by a bloody dementor. And Hermione? Her judgement was impaired. She was acting without thinking. She’d managed to get herself separated from her allies, and she had a superior opponent trying to chase her down and kill her.

_BANG!_

That was probably Bellatrix breaking through the door from the Great Hall. She probably had the same idea Hermione had. The woman was smart.

This was a fight she couldn’t win. She could hold her own for now, but with the great misfortune befalling her, there was no way she could beat Bellatrix until the curse broke at sunrise. Her only option was to keep running and survive the duel for the next hour, when she might be able to get help or pull off some trick to take her down.

 _BANG!_ Bellatrix blew the door to the Common Room off its hinges. She looked around and said, “Come out, come out, mudblood. I know you’re in here… _Homenum—_ ”

_Lamenta! Lumos Calora!_

A loud, obnoxious whine filled the air, further masking Hermione’s silenced movements, while an infrared laser—and invisible beam of burning heat swept across Bellatrix’s body. She jumped back and slashed her wand in a wide arc, trying to hit the source of the spells. Hermione ducked just before a huge score mark gouged into the wall. Bellatrix put up a shield, but Hermione saw an opportunity and cast another invisible spell at her feet, not fully articulating the long incantation in her mind, but it was a simple one: _Desatalos Cordonzapato Syenreda!_

She barely had time to duck out of the way before a Bludgeoning Hex when through where her head had been a moment ago. Fighting in such close quarters was not ideal. _Extonio!_ Another distracting spell. Bellatrix stumbled with her shoelaces tied together.

Luckily, the walls up here were mostly wood. _Confringo!_ Hermione blasted a hole in the side of the common room and half-climbed, half-jumped out onto the roof. Once there, she staggered and skidded down the slope, banging her elbows and knees and tearing at her robes, and cursing herself that she’d thought this would be as easy as it was in the movies. She covered her head as she hit the bottom, and the decorative crenellations were the only thing that saved her from tumbling over the edge. She was sure to have bruises from that.

Bellatrix was leaning out the destroyed window above her, cackling. She cast a powerful _Finite_ that made Hermione visible again, followed by a Blasting Curse that destroyed the part of the roof where she was standing. Hermione clung to the battlements to keep from falling back into the Great Hall. With no other options, she climbed over the edge.

“Ending it already, mudblood?” Bellatrix taunted.

Hermione ignored her, focusing on escape. “I’m going to regret this,” she muttered. _“Homaraneus!”_

A long rope shot out of her wand toward the wall of the main keep. It hit the side of the Great Tower and stuck there. She heard a clattering above—Bellatrix climbing onto the roof. She grabbed onto the rope and swung down. The wall rushed forward to meet her, and she cast a Banishing Charm to slow herself down and somehow successfully swung through one of the destroyed windows on the third floor. She tumbled out onto one of the moving staircases.

Trying a different tack, she ran up the staircase to the fourth floor landing while she reached into her enchanted handbag. When Bellatrix was climbing through the window (because _of course_ she found her own way across), she tossed a grenade down at her.

Unfortunately, Bellatrix was neither ignorant of muggle weapons nor as slow as a muggle who had to use their throwing arm would be. A flick of her wand, and the grenade flew back up at Hermione. Too stunned to cast a spell, Hermione acted on instinct and jumped off the staircase.

_BOOM!_

_Arresto Momentum!_

The explosion above nearly deafened her, and she barely stopped herself from hitting the floor at speed. This whole fight was going to be narrow scrapes like this, wasn’t it?

“Bad idea! Bad idea!” she muttered. Her judgement was still screwed up, and whether it was fatigue or the curse, it was bad news. She ran up the steps to the ground floor while Bellatrix was running down to reach her. “Okay, nothing that can be used against me,” she said. “Not with this curse in play.” That eliminated all of her explosives and chemical weapons—no chlorine trifluoride or sulfuric acid, and especially nothing airborne. There was too much risk of the “misfortune” befalling her of Bellatrix blowing it back in her face.

 _“AHHH!”_ Hermione dropped to the floor as a Cutting Curse hit her leg just as she was running out of the tower. Stumbling out of the doorway, she leaned against the wall and held a lighted wand to it. Luckily, it had caught her upper thigh where she still had protection from her basilisk-skin coat, so it was little more than a scrape, but it could have been deadly if she were unprotected. She kept moving, trying to walk it off.

There was enough soot around from the fires here that she could make carbon nanotubes. She strung a tripwire of razor thread across the door and started running again. A dozen or so yards later, she strung three of them at different heights across the whole corridor. A couple dozen yards later, another three. She also switched her wands around. Her blackened red oak wand to her right hand for offence, and her vinewood wand to her left hand for defence. The magical affinities of her wands would give her a little bit more edge in a fight than using the “correct” handedness.

 _“Occulus Flammare! Elinguem! Exsolvedent!”_ Bellatrix screamed.

Spells flew down the corridor from the doorway. Hermione shielded two and dodged the other, avoiding the curses that would have burned her eyes out, cut her tongue out, and…knocked her teeth out? “That was one of mine, dammit!” she yelled _“Tetania! Sectumsempra! Hemorrhagia!”_

That last one surprised her as the arc of purple light of Dolohov’s favourite curse shot out from her wand. It surprised Bellatrix too, seeing Hermione cast a curse that dark (though really, some of her own were just as terrible), but she still reacted fast enough to shield. Then she grinned. “Little mudblood wants to play rough, does she?” she said in a sing-song voice. She advanced slowly, menacingly, shooting gouts of flame from her wands in front of her—short range, only a few feet—too short to even try to reach Hermione. She was checking for razor thread. She knew enough to know it was deadly and nearly invisible in this light, but also that she could clear it out with fire.

“You think what I did to Riddle was a little love tap?” Hermione blurted. And she was already moving to dodge the _Crucio_ that Bellatrix threw back at her. Taunting? Maybe not the best plan.

She kept going anyway.

“You know, _you_ were the one who gave me the clue I needed to finish the job, Bella,” Hermione called. “All that time you spent torturing me for answers I didn’t have? I had to think there was something to it. I _wasn_ _’t_ visiting the stone circles then, but it was was easy once I figured out what you were looking for.”

Bellatrix gave an incoherent scream of rage and blasted fire down the corridor. Hermione threw up a _Protego_ and immediately realised that was a bad move since even shielded, the heat was scorching. _“Reflectere!”_ She conjured a mirrored shield with her other wand to reflect it away. Of course that also meant she couldn’t see Bellatrix’s next spell. She started to move in case it was something she couldn’t block.

Not fast enough. _“Crucio!”_

The spell only grazed her, but that was enough with an Unforgivable Curse. Hermione went down hard, screaming in agony, her wands clenched in hands that wouldn’t open. Her mind blanked with pain. The diadem made no difference because her brain was already overloaded, and for a moment, she was back on the floor in Malfoy Manor.

She must have only been under it for a few seconds this time, though, since she didn’t feel like she’d broken her body with convulsions. When she came out of it, she reacted on instinct—a reaction she could _only_ attribute to the diadem because she was in too much pain to think of it normally.

_“Pulvelox!”_

Miraculously, her wands hadn’t broken when she went down. She couldn’t point it accurately from the floor, but it didn’t matter with a powerful Sandblasting Curse. The granite floor of the corridor was gouged up and crushed into coarse, jagged sand, which slammed into Bellatrix at high speed.

Hermione was on her feet again without fully remembering how she got up so fast. Her left hand was throbbing, and she thought she might have broken a knuckle or her wrist in the fall. Bellatrix was shouting behind her, pushing her way through the sand.

Hermione only vaguely realised that she was far more focused than she’d expected. Something strange was happening with the Diadem of Ravenclaw—something she had noticed occasionally, but it was far stronger now. Where it normally overwhelmed her by preventing her from filtering out the vast information flow from her senses, if she got in the right mindset, its power to enhance mental abilities of calculation and memory could put her in an intense state of focus on the task at hand, where everything else was not gone, but faded into white noise. And right now, the task at hand was keeping Bellatrix from killing her. That was one advantage she _did_ have.

She ran, reaching the base of the North Tower and running around the corner to the north corridor. The rubble was much worse here. Practically the whole wall of the castle had been smashed, and it was open to the grounds—or to the ravine, anyway. She considered going out there, but decided against it. It was rougher terrain with less cover.

Other options? If she could get to the drainage tunnels, she might have a chance, but she was on the wrong end of the keep for that. Ditto for the East Wing.

_“Reducto!”_

Bellatrix entered the corridor, and Hermione dove for cover, ducking from hideout to hideout.

 _“Expulso! Confringo!_ You can’t hide forever, mudblood!”

 _“Pyr Thalassion!”_ Hermione hissed, casting Greek Fire over the rubble to block Bellatrix’s path. It was only partly successful. She was slowed, but she kept barrelling through.

Hermione tried to think of a strategy. She couldn’t overpower her, but she _could_ out-think her. Bellatrix was using high-powered spells and lethal curses. She was talented, but she didn’t have as much variety, and she was so angry that she was casting verbally, fighting through power alone. Hermione, on the other hand, had a huge list of less powerful spells at her disposal, which could still be useful. Even something as simple as a Hiccoughing Jinx could impair Bellatrix’s casting, but the problem was getting it to connect. It was a nightmare trying to get anything past her shield spells.

_“Fractis!”_

Suddenly, Hermione fell against the wall as she felt a Bone-Breaker Curse hit her in the ribs. She pushed on, ignoring the stabbing pain, and kept going. She ducked behind another piece of rubble, stepping over a body to do so. _Expelliarmus Resilio!_ She cast her Bouncing Disarming Charm several times in different directions, hoping to score a hit, but that was no use. Blind shooting was nearly useless with the ritual in play.

_BOOM!_

The fallen fragment of wall she was hiding behind exploded, knocking her across the floor, and she hit the ground hard. She rolled and cast back at Bellatrix. _“Angor Animi!” Fulmina!_ Bellatrix was startled by the wave of dark magic, and a bolt of lightning, far faster than most spells, lanced out and struck in a scattered pattern around her, knocking her back. _Rigor Mortis!_ _“Tekeli-li!”_

 _“Protego!”_ Bellatrix barely blocked the _Rigor Mortis_ curse. The Lovecraft Hex hit, but that wouldn’t do much more than disorient her. Hermione started running again as she staggered back to her feet. She ducked into a staircase and climbed to the next floor, despite her protesting knees. _“Myxinos,”_ she muttered, conjuring slime on the floor at the top. The stuff was wet enough that it might not burn up from fire, and she spread it wide enough that Bellatrix wouldn’t be able to sidestep it. Then, she reconsidered and ran up to the second floor and did it again before moving out. Misdirection was good. Ducking behind a pillar there, she considered the layout of the castle. If she put some distance between her and Bellatrix and ran up to the third floor, she would be able to swing across what was left of the bridge to the East Wing. Maybe even reach the Room of Requirement. If she could wait it out there, she’d be golden.

 _“Hominem Revelio,”_ a voice hissed.

Hermione spun around and snapped off a _Reducto_ , but stopped cold when she saw it wasn’t Bellatrix. It was _Cedric_. He narrowly deflected the curse.

 _“Cedric?”_ she hissed. “What are you doing here?”

“What do you think I’m doing? Trying to save you,” he said. “Most everyone else is safe. A couple of us are trying to get you out.”

There was a skidding sound and a thud from down the corridor, followed by a scream.

“Run!” Hermione shouted. She grabbed Cedric by the wrist and pulled him with her to the next stairwell. “I don’t know if this’ll work,” she said. “That ritual I did had consequences—Duck!” The jumped to opposite sides of the corridor as Bellatrix caught up with them, casting fast and furious.

With two of them, it was easier to fight back, but Bellatrix knew this too and immediately concentrated on Cedric, who had only one wand and had to use his off hand. Hermione rushed around and tried to flank her.

_“Barapergo!”_

She got her. The small, nearly invisible curse slipped around her shield where a she would have noticed a more powerful spell and reacted. Bellatrix swayed and slapped her hand to her neck as if swatting a mosquito. Striking the baroreceptors of the carotid arteries was the closest thing to a real-life Vulcan Nerve Pinch. Done right, it would cause a catastrophic drop in blood pressure and fainting. Unfortunately, she couldn’t hit both sides from behind, and as it was, it only made Bellatrix lightheaded. Hermione tried to circle around to the other side.

_“Barapergo!”_

Bellatrix spun and blocked the spell while throwing a curse at Hermione that slammed her into the wall, then spun back to Cedric with a two-wanded attack that threw him down the stairwell.

Hermione’s heart might have skipped a beat. Cedric was tough, though. He could handle a fall down the stairs as long as Bellatrix didn’t get him…but Bellatrix was going after him.

“Dammit,” Hermione hissed. “HEY! Over here, bitch!” she yelled throwing a pair of Blasting Curses Bellatrix’s way.

That got her attention, but now Hermione was right back where she started. She knew then that the curse wouldn’t let her get any serious help. She’d have to fight it out alone.

She kept running and fighting the best she could. She had to get to the third floor in Ravenclaw Tower to get to the East Wing. But getting there was a challenge. Bellatrix kept cutting her off, forcing her a floor above or below. Even with the diadem, it was getting hard to follow the cat-and-mouse game they were playing and keep track of her properly. She could reconstruct it later, but right now, it was becoming a blur. She was losing her sense of time and place except for what she needed to reach the East Wing, and with Bellatrix on her tail, she made her way there by inches.

Finally, Hermione lost Bellatrix long enough to get into Ravenclaw Tower on the third floor. She saw the way out. Only at that moment, Bellatrix ran into through the door on the opposite side of the tower and snapped off a Killing Curse before Hermione could blink. She dodged, barely, and cast _Sectumsempra_ back at her. They duelled, facing off across opposite sides of the wide spiral staircase. Hermione tried to get to the exit, but Bellatrix circled closer, trying to cut her off again.

 _“ARGH!”_ Hermione screamed as a _Bombarda_ slipped past her defences and slammed into her side. Tears came to her eyes as the blast laid her out on the stairs. She couldn’t go on much longer like this. Her only consolation was that she was making Bellatrix bleed too, but she just did not have the same combat experience that woman had. Or the magical strength, somehow. She still didn’t understand how that worked. She got up again and fought back as hard as she could, but nothing seemed to get through.

Only by tremendous force of will, she reached the door and pushed out into the open air before Bellatrix got to her. It was still pretty dark outside, but getting easier to see. There it was. The Stone Bridge—the upper deck of it, blown out early in the siege to prevent Death Eaters from crossing, but that wasn’t going to stop Hermione. _“Homaraneus.”_ The grappling line arced across and stuck to the opposite side just as Bellatrix ran out onto the bridge after her. But just as she was about to swing across, Bellatrix did something she didn’t expect.

_“Imperio!”_

The curse stuck full-on. With the Cruciatus, Hermione probably would have fallen off the bridge and swung down on the line. The Killing Curse could be stopped with her buckler if she had to. Almost anything else—a magical shield. But Imperius? She had no defence. The most wonderful feeling of calm and happiness came over her—a feeling so light she hadn’t felt like she would ever feel it again for a long time. The storm of sensations from Ravenclaw’s diadem was calmed, and her mind was cleared of the fear and worry and stress of the battle. All there was was the little voice in her head saying, _Stop._

_Stop? Why?_

_Let go._

This was wrong. That was Bellatrix bloody Lestrange! She was going to kill her!

 _Just stay there_.

 _“Cystic Fibrosis!”_ Hermione screeched in rage.

Bellatrix was so surprised at her breaking free of the Imperius that she didn’t block the spell. It hit, and she immediately staggered and started coughing up phlegm.

 _“Ichthyosis!”_ Hermione pressed her advantage. Bellatrix half-blocked that one but caught it in her arm. Hermione saw her skin crack and drip blood.

Bellatrix flicked her wand with a non-verbal curse Hermione didn’t recognise. She put up a Shield Charm, but the curse it seemed to eat away at the edges like a hail of glass shards. Some of the shards of magic cut her arms and legs. And that was her cue to bail. She swung down on her line and blasted the window in a split second before she went through it, dropping and rolling on the floor. A shocked wailing sound filled the air, and then it hit her where she was.

This was Myrtle’s bathroom.

“What are you doing?” Myrtle screamed.

Hermione ignored her. She briefly considered the Chamber of Secrets, but was it possible to blast her way in without the Parseltongue password? Could she recreate the password with her photographic memory? No, best not to risk cornering herself. She kept going, running to the north side of the castle, past the Astronomy Tower. She heard a scream behind her that she was pretty sure was Myrtle reacting to Bellatrix swooping into her bathroom, and she made for the nearest stairs. A curse slammed into the wall just before she reached the door.

Hermione turned and aimed her wand at the vaulted ceiling above and cast, _“Calcifrango!”_ The spell hit right in the centre of the vault. The mortar crumbled, and the keystone fell out. A moment later the entire vault collapsed onto Bellatrix’s head—or nearly. It was almost magically impossible for her to be that lucky right now. But she hoped it would slow her down for a few minutes. She ran up the stairs to the third floor and soon reached the north side of the castle, where she stopped to catch her breath for a minute.

Easier said than done. With two broken ribs on one side and a mess of damage on the other, she could barely breath at all unless she forced herself. Her eyelids started to sag, and she knew she’d have to keep moving before she passed out. She pushed herself to continue down the corridor and find another staircase. She had to get up to the Room or Requirement so she could get away from Bellatrix long enough to heal up.

_WHOOSH!_

A fireball came flying at her from down the corridor. She crouched and cast _Reflectere_ , reflecting most of the heat, but this time, the fireball billowed around her. She felt tongues of flame licking at her arms and back around the shield, and she winced in pain. She was pretty sure her hair was singed, too.

When the fire cleared, Hermione began slashing with her wand at Bellatrix and backing toward the stairs along the wall, but Bellatrix was throwing curses faster—darker ones, too. She was still bleeding and coughing, but it didn’t stop her relentless pursuit. If this went much longer, Hermione knew, she was done for, but she finally caught a lucky break when an Ossifying Curse slipped past Bellatrix’s shield and hit her leg. With her leg immobilised, Hermione turned and ran for the stairs.

A _Defodio_ slashed across her own leg, ripping a strip of flesh out of it and continuing on to gouge into the stonework. She screamed as she stumbled and fell to one knee, feeling it crack when it hit the floor. She lashed out all the more while she tried to think of another way to get a few minutes of safety. She needed a better distraction.

 _Extonio! Strobos! Lacrimosa! Vlefaricurl!_ she cast. She had a lot of spells that would impede someone’s vision in various ways. She threw a bunch of them Bellatrix’s way and forced herself to get up the stairs. When she reached the top, she carefully cast, _“Prociatur Imaginum.”_

There were plenty of illusion spells out there, but surprisingly few for this particular purpose. Most of them weren’t sophisticated enough to do this, but _this_ was Conjuration. An identical Hermione appeared facing her, dressed in the same clothes and with the same injuries. She had reasoned that since Conjuration effectively created tangible holograms that had no substance or weight, and only behaved according to the caster’s intent, she could _conjure_ a copy of herself—silent and intangible, but convincing enough to lure an enemy away. Hermione limped down the corridor, while the doppelganger waited until Bellatrix was just in view and turned and ran in the opposite direction.

It wouldn’t buy her much time. Her double couldn’t fight and would disintegrate with the first spell cast at her, but anything helped at this point. The important part was that it gave her time to hide and check her wounds. She found and empty classroom and ducked inside. _Lokutharmeth!_ She sealed the door.

Hermione slumped to the floor, gasping for breath. Her ribs were still broken. Her left hand was painful and swollen and had been since she’d taken that fall with the Cruciatus. She was bleeding in multiple places, and that last curse had ripped a pretty serious hole in her leg. She might well have lost a limb or died by now if it weren’t for her nanotube armour.

 _Vulnera Sanentur_ closed the gashes well enough. They looked like they might not even scar. How dark the specific curses were made a big difference there. The ragged skin on her leg, though, wouldn’t close properly. It didn’t hit anything vital, but it would turn out badly untreated. _“Diadein,”_ she whispered, and a tourniquet—or rather more of a compression bandage appeared around her leg. It would be good enough to walk on for a little while.

 _“Psiloma Opsis,”_ she cast on her hand. The X-Ray Charm outlined the bones of her hand and revealed two breaks. “Hmm, something that small… _Episkey—_ GAH!” That was _definitely_ not the right spell for a broken wrist. It _did_ mend it, but it was far too painful. _“Sarciat!”_ Better. She used that one on her ribs and her kneecap, though she’d still be feeling those in the morning.

Undoing her robes, she looked down at her stomach. She was badly bruised all down her right side, and she didn’t like the look of it. Her healing and diagnostic spells were still rudimentary, so she didn’t have a whole lot to work with, but an idea occurred to her. With the help of the diadem, she concentrated and put together something she could use. “Let’s try this one,” she muttered to herself, touching her wand to her stomach. _“Echoikonos Ocheia.”_

Ultrasound. Perfect. An ghostly image of her organs appeared over her bruised skin. It was faded and very fuzzy, but it was enough to see what she’d feared. She was bleeding internally. She had to finish this fast before she ended up like Bill. She could only hope she’d hurt Bellatrix as badly. _Cystic Fibrosis_ and _Ichthyosis_ were pretty nasty curses, and she’d hit her with a few other hexes here and there.

 _“Rescindo Livor.”_ The bruising faded as her blood was reabsorbed into her capillaries. It helped her other bruises, too. _“Collocellae.”_ There. That should keep her alive and functional long enough to get help.

The whole process was delicate work. It took a good few minutes, and she was banking on being able to get real Healer’s care quickly when the Sun came up and the consequences of the ritual lifted, but it was the best she had.

_THUD!_

She finished none too soon. Bellatrix had found her and was trying to bash down the door.

 _Options_ , she thought. Blow the door down on top of Bellatrix and face her? No. Go through the wall? Possible. Window? She was on the fifth floor.

She chose the window.

Climbing out, she pointed her wand up at the battlements at an angle. _“Homaraneus.”_ The new grappling line would let her swing several rooms closer to the Astronomy Tower—and an easier path to the Room of Requirement, if she could still get there. She grit her teeth, swung over, and grabbed onto a windowsill.

As she was undoing the latch, she heard a call of _“Defodio!”_ and a long, deep gouge was carved into the wall above her head, ripping into the window frame. Bellatrix was leaning out the window she’d just left, casting curses along the wall. Hermione dropped from the ledge, hanging onto it with her left arm while she tried to fight with just her right.

 _“Relashio! Confringo! Deprimo!”_ Bellatrix cast, ripping chunks out of the wall around her. With only one arm free, Hermione could barely do anything but shield against Bellatrix’s two wands. She tried to twist her left hand around far enough to cast a Shield Charm with it.

_“Expulso!”_

_BOOM!_

Hermione’s shield and the entire window frame shattered. She dropped four floors amid a rain of falling debris, but a quick _Arresto Momentum_ slowed her descent enough that she only bruised her knees instead of breaking her legs. Bellatrix jumped down from the window, slowing her own fall with a wind charm so powerful that it nearly blew Hermione off her feet.

Hermione cast _“Constringo Spiritus!”_ before Bellatrix could recover. The spell hit, and Bellatrix began choking and gasping for breath. Hermione didn’t let up. _Caridentibus! Ossificans! Peripheral Neuropathy!_ _”_

_CRACK!_

A bolt of lightning shot from Bellatrix’s wand faster than she could react. It hit Hermione square in the stomach and zapped her solar plexus. She doubled over, stumbling against the wall. It wasn’t as painful as the Cruciatus, but it was still bloody awful. And now _she_ was the one who couldn’t breathe. Was that part of the curse too? Having her most successful moves thrown back at her?

She thought fast. _Tetania?_ No, that would make the diaphragmatic spasms worse. She tried to think of an alternative and almost rolled her eyes when it hit her. She pointed her wand at her chest and thought, _Singultus!_ The Hiccoughing Jinx. It wasn’t ideal, but it got her diaphragm moving again.

She stood, and Bellatrix stood, too. Bellatrix was breathing again. She wasn’t limping either, so she must have done some impromptu Healing on herself, too. She also had blood running from the corners of her mouth, so the Tooth-Rotting Curse must have connected. They were on the narrow stretch of roof over the extension of the ground floor around the Middle Courtyard—like a classical duel with two opponents at opposite ends of a long, narrow platform. Except this was a duel Hermione couldn’t win, and the platform was a wooden roof with a twelve-foot drop beneath it. She hiccoughed again. She’d have to fix that soon. She pointed her wand at Bellatrix’s feet and concentrated, tearing apart the lignin chains in the wood. The wood turned as soft as cotton under her feet (albeit very dense cotton), and she stumbled as her boots tangled in the separating beams.

Bellatrix favoured a blasting curse.

Hermione tried to shield and jump out of the way, but there wasn’t enough room. The roof exploded beneath her, and she fell. Luckily, she caught her buckler on the edge of the hole, breaking her fall. That meant she only had to drop five or six feet to the floor. She took the fall. Her knees screamed in protest, but she managed it. She hiccoughed again and cancelled the jinx, then made a run for the Astronomy Tower to try at getting up to the seventh floor again, only to find that the stairs were blocked by a cave-in from the fighting. _Damn._ She’d have to go around. She ducked out the nearest door and into the Middle Courtyard, sprinting for door on the other side.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

Hermione dropped to her hands and knees, and the spell flew above her. Bellatrix was standing right in the centre of the courtyard. By the time Hermione climbed to her feet, she jabbed her wand and shot a blinding white curse that made Hermione’s hair stand on end. _Cittadellissimo!_ She slashed her wand and called up her five-layered shield. The spell ripped clean through four of the layers and hit the last one so hard that the backwash knocked her flat on her back. Was that the one Dumbledore had thrown at Riddle in the Ministry?

“Ah, you don’t like that one, do you?” Bellatrix said with a poisonous giggle. She sounded a bit winded, and Hermione could see the slump in her shoulders. That spell must have been at the limit of her strength. But it didn’t stop her from trying again. Hermione was only halfway to her feet when Bellatrix let the curse fly. Not enough time to raise a shield. She pointed her wand down and to the side and fired a lightning-fast _Depulso_. She rolled to the side just out of the spell’s path. It hit the base of the Astronomy Tower and began to cave it in with a loud crack. A large section of the stones were ripped from their places and smashed into the ground as if by crushing gravity. Cracks stretched out like tendrils up the wall, and a stretch of it the size of a garage collapsed into a compressed mound that drove itself into the ground.

Bellatrix was overexerting herself, which gave Hermione time to get her feet under her. She ran in an arc back toward the classrooms on the north gallery. Library, maybe? No, bad idea. Training grounds? If she could get to a broom—

A curse whizzed past her, and she snapped a pair of spells back at Bellatrix without much thining. Anything that worked at this point. A line of fire appeared along the north gallery, and a line of spikes beyond that. She was trying to cut her off.

Hermione had to push Bellatrix back somehow to give her time to get away. Fighting on completely open ground was nearly as much a disadvantage as close quarters too tight to dodge in. She turned to the far wall, ducked behind a bush, and quickly reached into her handbag and pulled out her last gun—a magical revolver that she hadn’t even tested yet. Then, she jumped out and rushed Bellatrix.

_Semipermeare!_

_CRACK!_

Silencing only partially worked, but so much the better. Bellatrix flinched at the sound, jumping back a short distance. The bullet went wide and buried itself in the wall beside the Astronomy Tower.

_CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!_

Hermione moved across Bellatrix’s line of sight toward the Grand Gallery and kept shooting. Bellatrix shielded, and two bullets pinged off it.

_CRACK! CRACK!_

That seemed to have at least tested her shield. She was pushed back to the Astronomy Tower, but Hermione was out of bullets. She tossed the gun away and cast _“Calcifrango!”_ Twice. The spell hit above Bellatrix’s head, bringing another section of the wall down on top of her. She dove to the side, but was still pelted with rubble. Anticipating her movement, Hermione aimed the second spell to Bellatrix’s right, bringing more stones down on her head. Bellatrix threw up a dome-shaped shield spell, which nearly buckled under the impact, but she stayed standing. A spell flashed from her wand.

_“AAAGGH!”_

Hermione screamed as the spell hit her bad leg and sent her sprawling on the ground. This time, she _did_ lose her grip. Her wands skittered away from her, out of her reach. She turned and stared in terror as Bellatrix advanced on her, a look of wicked satisfaction mingled with rage on her face. She tried to crawl. To reach for her wands. To call up the wandless magic she had used the last time she was in this exact situation. She pushed as hard as she could, and her wands rattled on the ground.

But Bellatrix’s patience was gone. “I have you now, mudblood,” she sneered. _“Avada Kedavra!”_

Unable to move, Hermione raised her buckler into the path of the curse and turned her head away.

_BOOM!_

Her carbon nanotube buckler exploded, blocking the curse with sheer physical strength like it had in Diagon Alley. Her arm stung; the sleeve disintegrated off her coat nearly to the shoulder, but she was alive. She pushed her magic again, and suddenly it broke through; both of her wands flew into her hand. She rolled and pointed them at a very surprised Bellatrix.

_BANG!_

She wasn’t sure _what_ spell she cast. It might have just been a very unfocused _Depulso_ , striking over a wide area. But Bellatrix was thrown head over heels. She hit the ground rolling, and the rest of the spell went on and hit the Astronomy Tower with a crack.

Hermione looked down at her leg. It was torn worse than before. _“Diadein,”_ she grunted, shutting out the pain. The compression bandage was expanded to cover the new wounds. She had to get up. With a great effort, she found her feet again. Her leg could still support her weight, but just barely.

Bellatrix staggered to her feet and spat blood from her mouth. There were scorch marks on her face from the exploding buckler. She looked shaky, but Hermione had no doubt she would be more mobile than herself right now.

“Bloody dunglicking mudblood bitch,” Bellatrix spat, raising her wands to her. “You just won’t die, will you?”

 _“Geodaisia!”_ Hermione gasped, putting up her dome shield against the coming attack.

“You people are like cockroaches,” her said. “I’m going to kill you, Granger, and then—”

They were both interrupted by a loud _CCRRRRAAACCCKK!_

Hermione and Bellatrix both stopped and looked at the Astronomy Tower, where a large crack had extended across what was left of the base, and another was racing higher and higher up the wall. The stones began crumbling from the edges of the holes. There was a low rumble, and the entire tower began to lean towards them.

Both women snapped back and stared at each other in wide-eyed shock, and Bellatrix let out an uncharacteristic, “Oh, my!”

They turned and ran in opposite directions. Hermione was limping so badly she could barely run, and she only narrowly got out of the path of the falling tower and huddled in the corner of the courtyard as it came crashing down. The noise was deafening as it fell. She threw up the strongest shield she could and covered her eyes and ears as chunks of stone pounded against it, desperately praying it would hold.

* * *

The onlookers outside the castle watched in shock as a crack and a rumble rang over the grounds. They saw the Astronomy Tower begin to lean, then topple over, falling across the East Courtyard. It was so enormous it seemed to fall in slow motion. It hit one of the bell towers on the way down, tearing it from its foundations. The bell tower fell onto the greenhouses with a tremendous clanging that seemed deafening even at that distance. Meanwhile, the top of the Astronomy Tower tumbled off the cliff and crashed into the Lake below.

No one spoke for a minute. Silence reigned over the grounds. Had Hermione and Bellatrix been in the tower? Had they been under it? Had either of them survived? They began trying to get to Hermione for the past hour, but somehow, no one could reach her. Was she even still alive now?

Then, bangs and flashes of light came from behind the pile of rubble, and the crowd breathed a sigh of relief. As frightening as Bellatrix Lestrange was, at least that was proof they were both still alive.

But then, there was a groan and a loud splash coming from the Lake, and lashing tentacles climbed up the side of the cliff toward the source of the disruption.

* * *

Hermione climbed to her feet. Her ears were ringing, she felt more bruised than ever, and she barely had room to crawl out of that corner. The only way out was to climb through the window into the Grand Gallery.

_“Bombarda!”_

_BANG!_

Bellatrix smashed in the window, and Hermione rolled out of the way. _Dridristraub! Tetania! Photia Damaskou!_ she cast back, some narrowly missing, others impacting on Bellatrix’s shield.

_“Viscera Expellite!”_

_“Reagarma!”_

The Entrail-Expelling Curse hit Hermione’s reactive shield and exploded, the energy washing back over Bellatrix. She’d wanted to create a shield that would reflect spells back at their casters, but that was far more difficult than it sounded. She’d had to settle for scattering the spell’s energy instead. When the backlash hit Bellatrix, she doubled over like she’d been kicked in the gut, but she quickly recovered.

Hermione was already moving again, half-running, half-limping out of the castle and into the greenhouse area. She opened the door to the still-intact Greenhouse One, hoping for a place to hide and catch her breath, but Bellatrix followed her in quickly, and she started running the length of the greenhouse to escape. Hermione charmed the plants to attack the next person to run past. Not as helpful as it sounded with the amount of fire Bellatrix was throwing around. She ducked behind a woody bush as the fire began to burn behind her. She waited until she heard the footsteps coming, then ran again. _“Facite Aqua Lignorum!”_ she gasped, pointing her wand behind her, and a small tree exploded into splinters as its wood hardened and fractured under the stress and heat.

She glanced up when she reached the door. _“Magnetis!”_ The greenhouses were one of the few parts of the castle built with a metal frame. That frame began to bend inward as she magnetised it. She felt the drain of the spell and realised she couldn’t crush the greenhouse outright. Luckily, glass didn’t need that much force. Half the windows of the greenhouse shattered and rained down on Bellatrix as the frame bent around them.

In retrospect, maybe she should have led with that.

She kept limping forward, trying to lose Bellatrix in the rubble. Bellatrix soon stumbled out of the destroyed greenhouse with several new cuts on her face and tears in her clothes, but she was no less angry than before. Hermione threw herself to the side as a curse flew past her, and she responded in kind.

She was trying to duck behind what was left of Greenhouse Four when something crashed down onto it from above, shattering a line of windows. It moved and writhed, wrapping around one of the exposed pieces of the frame and pulled. There was a loud groan, and part of the greenhouse’s frame was ripped of and pulled over the curtain wall, taking a chunk of the wall with it. Bellatrix stared, perplexed, but Hermione knew at once what it was.

The Leviathan.

Suddenly, half a dozen tentacles shot up from below and slammed down on the curtain wall with incredible force. The stones below their feet cracked, and the whole side of the bailey tilted toward the cliff. Hermione and Bellatrix staggered as the ground shifted, and more of the wall tore away. The tentacles lashed, and a chunk of greenhouse frame hit Hermione from behind, hurling her toward the cliff. She caught herself against the crumbling edge of the wall and got a good look down.

Hermione had never seen the whole body of the Giant Squid before, or even more than a small part of it. As big as it was, it wasn’t big enough to reach all the way up the cliff from the water. She hadn’t thought it would be able to climb up the cliff either, but it did.

The beast had to be a hundred and fifty feet long, more than three times the size of a normal giant squid. Its fin was broad and ran all the way around its mantle like a cuttlefish, and it seemed to use it to push itself along over the rocks. Its back was covered with thick scales like a crocodile’s, not just squishy flesh. It had twenty or thirty visible tentacles that writhed and shifted so that she couldn’t tell where one ended and the next began, half of them braced on the cliff to help its climb and the other half reaching and groping to find the puny humans who had disturbed its Lake. Within its beak was an open maw that could swallow a man whole, lined with spear-like teeth.

It was the millennium-old Greater Water Elemental that lived in the shadow of Hogwarts. And it was very angry.

Bellatrix was knocked against the wall by another tentacle. She took one look at the monster and shouted, _“Avada Kedavra!’’_

The Killing Curse struck one of the Leviathan’s tentacles, and the tentacle dropped off, dead. The rest of the creature recoiled as if in pain, but it was still alive.

“Bugger,” she said.

Tentacles lashed out at her and Hermione with terrifying force, tearing stones and masonry away, smashing through the greenhouses and threatening to pull the whole bailey into the Lake. Hermione tried to back away, but she only got a few steps when one tentacle wrapped around her ankle, tearing at her jeans with serrated suckers the size of her fist. It pulled her down and dragged her across the ground, nearly dropping her wands. She grabbed hold of the curtain wall again just before she would have been pulled over the cliff. She screamed when she saw the Leviathan’s beak snapping for any food it could pull in. Eyes the size of her entire torso swivelled like a chameleon’s to point at her, tinted red and radiating malice.

She slashed a Cutting Curse at the tentacle and severed it, and even that wasn’t all the way through—just enough to make it let go. Her trouser leg was still torn off at the knee. She scrambled back, but three more tentacles were lashing at her. She used more Cutting Curses to fend them off, trying to cut into their soft undersides when they tried to grab her.

A spell she was pretty sure was a Banishing Charm flew past her, narrowly missing her back. She spun around and saw Bellatrix. The woman was having to fend off tentacles herself, but she’d still found time to shoot a hex at her. Hermione ran behind one of the greenhouses, getting out of the line of fire of both Bellatrix and the Leviathan.

Moments later, Bellatrix screamed, and Hermione looked out again and saw her dragged to the cliff side, but she conjured what looked like a whip made of fire and cracked it at the tentacles. One was cut nearly through, and the rest recoiled, but as soon as she got away, she turned the whip on Hermione.

Hermione ran again, jumping through a hole in the wall made by the fall of the Astronomy Tower, and she found herself in the Grand Gallery, with Bellatrix in hot pursuit. She thought fast and headed towards the ruined bell tower where there would be even more cover. One huge brass bell lay cracked on its base in the Gallery.

And then, it happened. Her watch started chiming: _tink tink tink tink tink tink tink_ _…_

It was a sound she hadn’t heard in so long that she almost didn’t recognise it. Even in her long stay in the wilderness when she was trying to get back into a normal sleep rhythm, she hadn’t had cause to use the alarm on her watch. She checked it just to be sure. Five-twenty-five.

_Sunrise._

She couldn’t see it through the clouds, but she could feel the curse from the ritual lifting from her shoulders like dirt washed away by the rain. She wasn’t burdened by misfortune anymore, and that meant she could fight Bellatrix head on. She turned on her heel in the narthex under the remaining bell tower and faced the madwoman head on as she approached.

Bellatrix paused when she saw Hermione stop and face her, but she soon began advancing warily again. Fire lanced out from her wands and circled the room almost as an afterthought, providing light to see—and a deadly threat.

But Hermione could fight without magical interference now. Shielding with one hand, she snapped off a flurry of silent curses, starting with _Commotio Cordis_. Bellatrix knew her signature move, though, and threw up a double-layered shield to block it.

 _“Dialego Kathar Magnesia,”_ Hermione whispered, and magnesium dust was leeched from the rocks around Bellatrix, beginning to form a cloud.

Bellatrix waved her wand in a circle above her head, and the dust was gathered in a denser cloud and hurled at Hermione. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut and snapped off a _Fulmina_ on instinct, exploding the cloud between them. Not that, then.

 _“Oppugno Ignis!”_ Hermione shouted, and the fire blew inward as if from an imperceptible wind, each flame blasting an unnatural distance towards Bellatrix. Her eyes widened as she saw her own weapon of choice turned against her. For a brief moment, the flames seemed to engulf her, but a moment later, they blew forcefully outward, forcing Hermione to shield against them.

When the dust cleared, Bellatrix was still standing, using a Shield Charm Hermione had never seen before. It was double-layered, so it would block most shieldbreaking curses, and it completely enclosed her in a bubble from all sides, similar to her own geodesic shield. She tried throwing the nastiest curses she had at it. _Trigeminal Neuralgia. Epidermolysis Bullosa. Dornr_ _öschen. Photia Phaethon._ She even tried Ondine’s Curse as a shieldbreaker—the darkest curses she’d devised that made little sense for a battle, but would cause terrifying lingering damage to the body. She still couldn’t get through both layers at once. Dammit, with the curse lifted, she could actually stand her ground, but she still couldn’t get through Bellatrix’s Shield Charm.

_“Avada Kedavra!”_

Hermione dodged. Bellatrix could just keep throwing killing curses back at her, and she couldn’t keep this up forever. She was still injured pretty badly under her makeshift Healing, and she didn’t think she could outlast her at this rate. Hermione stopped casting for a moment, just trying to catch her breath and stay out of Bellatrix’s line of fire.

“Getting tired, mudblood?” Bellatrix taunted. “Too bad. I guess you weren’t better than the real wizards after all.”

“Still good enough to kill your master!” Hermione shouted back, then dodged another curse. She had to win this, and win it now. But how was she going to get through Bellatrix’s shield?

Bellatrix clenched her left fist. Hermione could see scarring where the Dark Mark had been. “I’ll kill you, mudblood!” she shrieked. “And then I’ll go back and kill little Freddie, too! What’s poor Georgie going to do when you’re both gone?”

Hermione saw red. And then, the answer hit her.

_They can tunnel under it!_

She reached up for the talisman hanging around her neck and ripped it off its chain—the one she had prepared weeks ago. She hadn’t dared use this under the curse from the ritual. Were she in her right mind, she would have thought twice about using it now, it was so dangerous, but she was too furious to care. She held the talisman in her hand—a small disk, small enough to fit in her palm—two sided, with black onyx covered in intricate runes on one side and smooth, grey carbon on the other. She activated the runes and linked them to the power she was pouring out from her wand and spoke. Her last resort. Beyond even the curse on the day of birth. A single word, _whispered_ , not shouted.

 _“Qanenu_. _”_

She blew on the talisman, and a cloud of dust seemed to blow from it. It fell to the ground unnaturally fast, where it bloomed and billowed with a high, grinding sound like a dental drill. It spread over the ground and moved towards Bellatrix with surprising speed, sliding over the rubble and snaking out tendrils toward her. Where it passed, it left deep scrape marks in its wake, vanishing the small stones and leaving the larger ones scoured as if with steel wool. The cloud grew with everything it ate away, corroding the very rock of the castle. Bellatrix’s eyes widened when she saw the damage it did, and she redoubled her effort as the swarm attacked her shield.

When Hermione was making the talisman, she’d christened it the Deplorable Word. _There was a word which, if spoken with the proper ceremonies, would destroy all living things except the one who spoke it._ So C. S. Lewis wrote in _The Magician_ _’s Nephew_. It was so dangerous she’d hesitated to even make it, but she went ahead. It helped that the word contained the letter _qoph_ , which didn’t appear in the English (or Latin or Greek) alphabet, and would thus be difficult to speak by accident, besides all the other safeties she’d placed on it. If she dropped the talisman, the swarm would fall inert. If she destroyed the talisman, it would burn to ash. If she stopped supplying power with her wand, it would stop multiplying and would soon fall inert.

The “swarm” was not the microscopic self-replicating robots of muggle fiction. They were solid triskelia-shaped bits of carbon nanotube material, resembling tiny, three-pointed “ninja stars,” designed so they would tessellate on the talisman. They were a little over a millimetre wide and were transfigured fully-formed with microscopic runes written on them—runes to keep a molecular cutting edge, to cut with supernatural force, and to transfigure the bits of whatever they cut apart into more triskelia. The runes were copied from a larger master set on the talisman so they wouldn’t degrade in the copying, and the triskelia were too small to hold a magical charge of their own, so they had to constantly be fed power from her wand, but that was more than enough for this.

The swarm poked with tendrils at Bellatrix’s shield, but it couldn’t get through. Hermione had expected that. She directed it to surround her so she couldn’t get out, and to probe into the ground, finding the cracks in the stones. In an old castle like this, even well-maintained stones would have small cracks—too small to worry about stray magic, or even pests, but large enough for her purposes. The swarm wormed its way into the cracks, widening them as it ate into the sides. The scraping grew louder and more frantic as the triskelia chewed through the rock, digging through cracks and holes to get under Bellatrix’s dome. Then, they started digging up, and then the pavement cracked under her feet, and they were in.

“What!” Bellatrix gasped. Minuscule triskelia began pouring into her shield from the ground like a swarm of locusts, swirling around her menacingly and tearing at the threads of her garments. She slashed with her second wand, blasting them with fire. The fire destroyed the ones it hit, but there were too many. Even just the ones inside the shield, there were too many to hit all of them. “What did you do?!” she screamed. She waved her wand at the ground and sealed the cracks, but it was too late. The stones were already eroding away under her feet. Before she could dispatch the rest of the swarm swirling around her, more cracks formed, and more triskelia poured in. They began tearing at her more, fraying her clothes and scraping her skin—not enough to draw blood, but enough to feel it. “Ah! What spell is this, mudblood?” she screamed.

“It’s the Curse of Von Neumann.” Hermione said, her voice as cold as ice. “The Deplorable Word. That which haunts the dreams of the most brilliant muggles in the world.”

 _“Avada Kedavra!”_ Bellatrix shouted. Hermione dodged a bolt of green light, but she didn’t break her concentration. _“Avada Kedavra! Avada Kedavra!”_

Hermione responded by making the triskelia bite deeper, concentrating on Bellatrix’s hands to try to stop her casting. The swarm would obey her intent utterly, but it required intense concentration to keep from making a mistake with an idle thought. Luckily, she was still in her hyperfocused state with the diadem. She wanted with every fibre of her being to make Bellatrix pay for Malfoy Manor and all the other wrong she’d ever done, and her whole attention was focused on that one goal.

 _“ARGH!”_ Bellatrix screamed as the swarm tore at her hands, bloodying them with wounds that individually were little more than pinpricks, but came in such numbers that she was being slowly flayed alive. Yet Bellatrix still clutched her wands tight, fighting furiously against the swarm while maintaining her shield against the main body. _“Evanesco! Reparifarge! Varifors!”_ She was getting smarter, catching on that it was a transfiguration, and trying to cancel or change it. But Hermione was actively maintaining the transfiguration, and while she may not have been as strong as Bellatrix, all she needed for this was evasion and precision.

The swarm on the outside of her shield was a tornado swirling around her like a cloud of death, having dug a deep trough around the edge of her shield to fuel its growth. Inside, it was having trouble getting a foothold with her trying to destroy it, but it was still growing, eating at the rocks under her feet.

 _“Pondus! Finite Incantatem! AHH!”_ Some of the swarm bit into Bellatrix’s wands, but the triskelia were destroyed by sparks of magic spewing everywhere, so Hermione focused more on her hands, contracting the swarm around her. It tore deeper, scraping away skin and severing tendons. The rest of her wasn’t unscathed either. Her face was bloody with scrapes. Her hair was falling from her head. Her clothes were disintegrating. The sleeves of her robes fell off, bound as they were with strings (so impractical for a battle), and her leather corset-thing crumbled away, both were consumed by the swarm before they hit the ground.

Bellatrix brought her failing hands together, holding her wands shakily, training them on Hermione. She hissed the words quietly, trying to keep her from hearing the spell. _“In-cen-di-um In-fer-naaach! AHHH!”_

Hermione didn’t know what spell that was, but she was sure it was bad, and she wasn’t going to take the chance that she could dodge or block it. Where she’d been holding back a moment ago, she directed the swarm to tear into Bellatrix’s hands _and_ wands with full force and to jab a tendril into her mouth, scraping between her teeth and tearing away at her tongue. A gout of unholy blood-red flame sputtered from her wands, but winked out before it could fully form.

Bellatrix screamed in agony, and her shield began to sputter, letting more of the swarm in from outside. But even voiceless, she still didn’t go down. A huge blast of conventional fire shot towards Hermione as the shield broke and wiped out half the swarm. Hermione ducked, and Bellatrix started running, but she stumbled as what was left of her boots didn’t come away with her. Hermione sent tendrils of the remaining swarm to attack her legs, tearing at her hamstrings and Achilles tendons, and she screamed again and dropped to her knees.

Bellatrix’s wands fell from hands stripped to the bone. She turned to Hermione with nothing but hate on her face, all thought of survival gone, replaced by the furious desire to take the mudblood with her. Her face was a ruin of blood and shredded skin, her eyes squinting in narrow slits against what seemed like a cursed sandblasting.

Dark curses formed at the stumped of her fingers, and Hermione suddenly realised she had no idea _what_ a witch’s magic was capable of at a moment of such desperation. The injuries she’d seen in this war were usually much cleaner—maybe a lost limb at worst, otherwise something fully incapacitating, causing unconsciousness—or just death—but not _this_. Bellatrix was still dangerous like this—perhaps even more dangerous. She dodged and rolled and put up a shield against the curses, but thanks to Ravenclaw’s diadem, she didn’t lose concentration. And she counterattacked.

The swarm bit deep this time. Unrestrained by Bellatrix’s shield, it grew large enough to carve a crater into the stone around her. It tore up Bellatrix’s skin and what was left of her clothes. She fell on her back, screaming in agony, writhing to try to escape, but losing control of her body. Hermione stepped forward leisurely until she was standing over her, her face half visible through the swarm. She wanted her face to be the last thing the screaming woman saw—hard and merciless. A charge of magic was in the air, wild and uncontrolled, lashing out everywhere—Bellatrix’s last desperate attempt, but not strong enough to get through Hermione’s shield.

The swarm was slow cutting through rock, but it tore away the soft flesh like paper in a bonfire. It flayed her from head to toe in seconds and cut deeper, consuming muscles and organs and scraping at bones. Bellatrix’s screams went on a disturbingly long time before blood loss caught up with her. Or maybe it was when the swarm ate its way into her lungs. Her screams still rang in Hermione’s ears after they stopped.

She was dead, but Hermione still didn’t let up, scouring even the bones with until they cracked and crumbled and joined the swarm. Only then did she stop. She pointed her wand at the talisman in her hand and shattered it, and she threw the pieces into the swarm. At once the swarm burst into flame, instantly burning all of the triskelia away. When it was over, nothing was left but a pile of blackened ash covering a large area around a shallow crater. It was done.

Hermione suddenly broke from her trance, and she wearily pulled the diadem off her head. She gasped when she felt its influence leave, nearly blacking out before the world reasserted itself, dull and subdued and _normal_. She looked down at the crater at her feet. What she’d just done to Bellatrix…she almost couldn’t believe it. In her right mind, the sheer level of destruction there was hard to see, no matter how much Bellatrix deserved it.

The Deplorable Word couldn’t destroy the whole world, of course—not unless it were carved into the great stone circle at the South Pole, and even then, it would be difficult to stop all possible counters—but it was dangerous enough that she was considering placing the whole thing under a Fidelius Charm. She was all too aware of what it could do in the wrong hands.

She turned and staggered as the exhaustion she’d been ignoring hit her all at once. Then, she froze as she saw who was standing behind her. Some of the defenders were picking their way through the rubble of the destroyed bell tower, trying to get to her to help, completely missed in her trance before. Most of them weren’t close enough to get a clear view of what happened, but three were: Neville, George, and Arthur.

“I think you got her,” said Neville, staring at her with wide eyes.

“…Yeah,” she muttered. She took another step, staggered again, and George rushed forward to catch her. She put her arm around his shoulder for support. He tried to pick her up, but she waved him off from that. She could walk out on her own two feet.

“Thanks,” she breathed as he helped her through the rubble.

Fred was the next closest one behind them, of course. He must have seen part of it. He craned his neck to get a better view of the scene. “Did you just do what I think you did?” he asked.

“Oi! Let her be,” George said.

“Thanks,” she said again, and then she finally remembered. “Luna? The dementor?” she asked urgently.

“Aberforth’s still got ‘em,” George assured her. “She’s alive, if you can call it that.”

“Thank God. Harry and Ginny?”

“They’re fine, we think. They came to their senses a few minutes ago, but their still kinda out of it.”

“Sunrise,” she said. “Cedric?”

“He’s good, too.”

They emerged into the light, such as it was. They were still under heavy overcast and would be for the whole day. Much of the light was still from wandlight, but they could see well enough. She could make out the light of Aberforth Dumbledore’s Patronus guarding the dementor, and she could see Harry and Ginny sitting together, looking shaken. Harry’s hair had pretty much all grown back. Funny that she didn’t notice that until now. He’d been bald less than twenty-four hours ago.

“Bellatrix…” Arthur said, but faltered for a moment. “Bellatrix is dead.”

The crowd broke into cheers. Hermione realised for the first time that they must have been watching their duel from a distance the whole time—all the way up to knocking down the Astronomy Tower. It had to have been terrifying. Right now, she didn’t want any of it. She felt like she was about to fall asleep on her feet.

“And the Death Eaters?” she asked weakly. “Did we get all of them?”

“A lot of the dark army ran when…when Voldemort died,” Arthur said. “We think we got all the marked ones except for Barty Crouch Junior. We don’t know where he went.”

“Good,” she said. “That’s…mostly really good…I’m gonna go to sleep now.”

* * *

Sally-Ann Perks looked down at Hermione as George carried her unconscious to Madam Pomfrey, and she shook her head. “I think I’ve been a bad influence on her,” she said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lumos Calora: based on the Latin for “light heat.”  
> Homaraneus: stylised from the Latin for “Spider-Man.” Modified from an idea by MandibleBones.  
> Elinguem: credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.  
> Pulvelox: stylised from the Latin for “fast sand.”  
> Barapergo: stylised from the medical term “baroreceptor” and the Greek for “strike.”  
> Cystic Fibrosis: medical term derived from the Latin for “fibre” and the Greek for “bladder-like” and “condition.”  
> Ichthysosis: medical term for any of a number of diseases of varying severity from mild to catastrophic. As such, be careful if you Google this. Based on the Greek meaning roughly “fish-like.”  
> Prociatur Imaginum: credit to bexis1, Riddle09, and Luckner’s Harry Potter and Ice Cream Delights for this idea.  
> Diadein: credit to EssaryOfThoughts for this idea.  
> Psiloma Opsis: credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.  
> Sarciat: Latin for “be mended.”  
> Echoikonos Ocheia: based on the Greek for “sharp sound-image.” “Sharp” is the word used in Greek for “high-pitched.”  
> Constringo Spiritus: Latin for “I compress breath.”  
> Singultus: credit to EssayOfThoughts for this idea.  
> Reagarma: stylised from the Latin for “reactive armour.” Credit to an anonymous guest reviewer for this idea.  
> Oppugno Ignis: credit to Benjamin Goldberg for this idea.  
> Qanenu: the active intensive plural imperative form of the Hebrew QNN for “to lament,” roughly translating to, “All of you lament greatly!”  
> Varifors: a generic transfiguration spell based on “variable” and the “-fors” suffix of many known transfiguration spells.
> 
> Two chapters left! (I hope.) I’m going to try to get them done in two weeks, but I really don’t know how that will go. They’re well-outlined, but I have a minor surgery next week, plus a lot of work, and upcoming travel that is still up in the air because of the other two things, so I don’t know how much time I’ll have to write. But stay tuned for the final denouement of Lady Archimedes.


	81. Chapter 81

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Now my charms are all o’erthrown, and what strength I have’s JK Rowling’s.
> 
> To those who are wondering how Sally-Anne has been a bad influence on Hermione, remember way back in Chapter 2 of The Arithmancer, it was an eleven-year-old Sally-Anne who fell asleep on her feet on Hermione’s first night at Hogwarts after saying those same words. Hermione has sort of picked up the habit.
> 
> Thank you for all your words of support over the past week. My surgery went well, and I am recovering fine. I have a full draft of the final chapter ready, so you’ll see it next week.

Hermione woke in what felt like the softest bed she’d ever slept in, and she almost wanted to go back to sleep immediately. Reluctantly, she blinked her eyes open and saw white above her, and for a moment she wondered if she were dead. Then, she tried to move.

Nope, still alive.

“Hey,” a voice said. She turned her head and saw George sitting beside her.

“Hey,” she answered. She reached out to him, and he clasped her hand. As her eyes focused, she saw that she was in a tent, but she was lying on—she thought—a hospital bed. It suddenly hit her that she hadn’t slept in a real bed in three months—only a small cot ever since Malfoy Manor. It was amazing how good a simple hospital bed felt now. “How…how long…?”

“About thirteen hours,” George said. “Most folks who’re still here are eating supper now. How are you feeling?”

She pushed herself into a sitting position, more slowly this time. She felt stiff and exhausted, and all the places she’d so crudely healed during the fight were aching, but she did feel more whole now. “Better than I did this morning,” she answered, though her voice turned raspy at the end. George quickly handed her a glass of water. “Thank you.” She drank it and tried to piece together what was going on. She wasn’t at St. Mungo’s—nor in the tents in the woods they had vacated over thirty-six hours ago. She had so many questions she wasn’t sure where to start.

“We’re set up in the clearing by the carriage stand, by the way,” George started for her. “McGonagall declared the castle uninhabitable.”

Hermione winced. She felt her face grow hot as she remembered the Astronomy Tower crashing down on the castle below. The house elves still told tales of the legendary duel in which Godric Gryffindor and Salazar Slytherin had destroyed the Astronomy Tower a thousand years later. And now, she’d repeated that feat.

“Yeah, that was pretty mental,” he agreed with her silent musings.

“That’s one way of putting it,” she muttered.

George nodded. “Er…there’s no easy way to say this, but…”

“Everyone saw?”

“Well, that too. But I was going to say everyone heard the screams when you killed Bellatrix.”

Hermione paled. “Oh…oh, God.” She could almost hear Bellatrix’s screams, even now. What must they think? She didn’t regret what she did, but she could have done it quickly and something approaching cleanly if she’d wanted. The way she’d done it…

“It was scary,” George admitted. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything else like that except when she had you…Some of us were worried she was using Cruciatus on you, and then when they found out you won, they were worried you used it on _her_. We didn’t tell them what you did—Hell, _I_ _’m_ not sure what you did—but me and Dad and Neville set ‘em straight there.”

“Thanks,” she said.

He sighed, slumping in his seat a little. “I was so worried for you, Hermione. You were out there for so long, and none of us could get to you.”

“It was the ritual,” she told him. “I was under a curse until sunrise that stopped me from getting help.”

“Yeah, that’s what Harry and Ginny said. Anyway, the castle’s uninhabitable, and the Giant Squid’s still attacking anyone who gets close—”

“That should calm down tomorrow,” she cut in.

“Great. So, some of the shopkeepers from Hogsmeade came up once we got the word out—brought a bunch of food and supplies. The people who could left already. Most of the underage kids are home with their parents.”

“That’s good,” she said. She hesitated before asking the question that she truly wanted and dreaded to know: “How many…?

George lowered his gaze. “Final count, on our side, including the five we found over by the woods, we’re up to forty-three.”

“The woods?”

“Yeah, they got swarmed when Voldemort’s army ran for it. It was good they got out of the castle, though. But somebody got into the kitchens and trashed the place. We’re just lucky they didn’t touch the infirmary in Hufflepuff.”

 _Forty-three_ , she thought. The number was almost laughably small to a student of muggle history, but in wizarding community of ten thousand, that was an earthquake. And she knew most of the defenders personally, at least in passing. There were probably more names of the fallen she would recognise that she hadn’t heard yet.

“I know. It’s rough,” he said. “You should see the other guys, though. It’s more than twice as many of them—probably three times if you count the acromantulas.”

She _did_ count the acromantulas, even if it was hard to sympathise with a creature that literally wanted to eat her. Either way, it was hard to believe how bloody the war had become, in the end. “George, your family—!” she suddenly.

“You mean _our_ family,” he corrected with a half-smile. Hermione blushed crimson and looked down at her hand. Miraculously her ring was still there after all that. “Yeah, all of us are still here,” he told her. _Except Bill and Muriel_ went unsaid. “Charlie even showed up this morning. He got the summons last night, but he couldn’t get back from Romania before the fight was over, the slacker.” She chuckled at that, and he smiled at her. “I love you,” he said. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“I love you too, George.” She leaned over and kissed him.

“You want something to eat?”

“Please.”

George left for some food, and when he came back, Madam Pomfrey was with him. “Well, Miss Granger, it’s good to see you’re finally up. You were quite the sorry sight when they brought you in this morning, but I suppose I expected much worse after you had a building fall on you. Here, drink this.”

Hermione drank a truly revolting potion that did God-knew-what, and Madam Pomfrey fussed over her for a few minutes. “You’re in remarkably good shape considering what you’ve been through. I take it you did some healing on yourself before you got to me?” She nodded. “Well, it was crude, but it _did_ help. The gouge mark in your leg will leave a nasty scar, but the rest of them should be barely noticeable. Your liver and right kidney will need a couple more days to heal, so you can just rest here tonight, and then—”

“Madam Pomfrey,” she cut her off, her voice serious, “if you’re intending on keeping me here in this tent, I’m afraid I have rather more important things to do, and quite frankly, I believe you don’t have the legal authority at this point.” Hermione met her eyes, she thought with a flicker of apprehension on Pomfrey’s part. Left unsaid was that she had just killed Bellatrix Lestrange in what would probably be considered a duel for the ages, and it was unlikely that Pomfrey could overpower her even in her current state.

“Hmph,” Pomfrey said, quickly recovering. “You’re as bad as Potter. He wouldn’t tell me _anything_ about what happened with him and Miss Weasley even after their brains were scrambled. I ought to drop you and refer you straight to St. Mungo’s if you keel over before you’re healed properly.”

“I’ll take it easy, ma’am,” Hermione insisted. “The work is mostly intellectual. But there’s one person who still needs my help tonight.”

Pomfrey reluctantly acquiesced, though Hermione did eat supper before exiting the tent. The food was exquisite. She hadn’t had any proper English food for three months either except for a sandwich last night that she hadn’t really tasted. Once she finished, she climbed out of the bed. She was unsteady on her feet and felt like she’d…well, had a building fall on her, but she could walk.

Outside, it was quite dark. Though it was still evening, the heavy clouds still shadowed the land, as the did the whole of the British Isles and would until sunrise tomorrow. She could only image what the weather forecasters thought seeing such a heavy cloud cover come out of nowhere like that.

There was an encampment of a couple dozen tents around the carriage stand, lit by lamps, torches, magical lights, and campfires, with people sitting around them, eating and talking. Looking up the path, she could see the ruined silhouette of Hogwarts—the Astronomy Tower gone, the rest of it badly damaged. People stopped and stared when they saw her. Some applauded; a few others recoiled slightly; Professor Sinistra looked particularly afraid of her.

“Hermione!” Ginny leapt from her seat and ran over to hug her, and Harry followed after her. “It’s good to see you up. We were so worried about you after this morning.”

“I’m glad to see you’re alright too, Ginny, Harry,” she said. “And coherent. I could only guess at what happened with the ritual. I was worried it wouldn’t clear up after.”

“Hey, Hermione!” Charlie Weasley called from the campfire. She’d only met him a couple times, but she recognised him from his short, stocky figure, and the muscular arms covered in burns and tattoos (neither of which Molly approved). “Great to see you’re awake… _So_ , if you don’t mind, why don’t you explain to me _exactly_ what you did to my baby sister?”

Fred elbowed him. “Oi, don’t mess with Hermione, Charlie. She just turned Bellatrix Lestrange into a pile of ash this morning!”

She rolled her eyes and sat down by the fire. She really didn’t need that reminder. “It’s fine, Charlie,” she said. “It _was_ mostly my fault.” They had agreed the true story of the horcruxes should not be spread too widely, and the horcrux in Harry even less so, so they had prepared an edited story for this. “The short version is, Harry had a dark magic connection with V— _Riddle_ ,” she grumbled. She have to fix that soon. “There was a danger Riddle could read his mind or that it could otherwise cause trouble when we came to kill him, so we had to remove it. I created a ritual to sever the connection, but it went wrong. Riddle tried to possess Harry; I had to act fast; the only thing I could do was cut off the connection to Riddle on Harry’s end by attaching it to someone else. Simple as that.”

“I volunteered,” Ginny said with steel in her voice, daring Charlie to challenge her decision. “It made more sense for me to do it than anyone else. I love Harry. It hurt for a while, but it’s not that big a deal now that we’ve got it under control…It just means we’ll have to move up the wedding, is all,” she finished with a smirk.

 _“WHAT?!”_ Charlie squawked.

“Well, we’re still not comfortable sleeping in separate beds, so—” Charlie and Percy both jumped to their feet in indignation. “Just holding hands, of course!” she added.

“They don’t _have_ to get married,” Hermione assured them. “I’m sure they can overcome that problem with more practice. I mean, it’s not like it’s some ancient, legendary bond of soulmates or something—”

“No, but it would still be a lot more convenient, wouldn’t it?” Ginny said brightly. “How does the eleventh of August sound?”

“That’s only your seventeenth birthday,” Molly protested.

Ginny grinned: “Funny how that works out.”

Molly let it go for the time being: “ _Well_. Speaking of which, congratulations, Hermione. I’m so happy for you and George.”

“Oh, and we don’t get anything?” Ginny said.

Molly waved her off. “I’m happy for you too, Ginny, but I’d be happier if you were of age _before_ you started talking about setting a date,” she said half-seriously. Ginny grumbled and crossed her arms.

Hermione smiled. “Thank you, Molly,” she said. They sat and talked for a little while around the fire. Sirius came over to join Harry, and It emerged that Remus and Tonks were alright, but they had gone home to see to their son. Fleur had reported in that she and Nadia had also got home safe. Hermione soon excused herself, though, since she still had other people to see.

She continued picking her way through the encampment. She asked around where the bodies had been laid out and was pointed a short distance up the path. Professor Babbling’s body had been brought up from the anchor stones. Riddle’s too, though he was laid separate from the others. She could see a larger group of bodies farther away across the grounds that were presumably the Death Eaters who had been recovered, but at the edge of the nearer area, she heard quiet sobs and noticed two small figures sitting beside the motionless form of a third. Drawing closer, she gasped when she saw Sonya sitting there, with Dobby beside her, crying over her grandmother’s body.

“Oh, no! Tilly!” Hermione cried. She hurried to the pair. “Sonya, I’m so sorry!”

Sonya grabbed her in a hug and clung to her like a small child. “G-g-grandmum w-was…she was p-protecting the children,” she sobbed. “The b-bad wizards came after us when He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named fell. We c-couldn’t save them all.”

Hermione looked back at the rows of bodies. She saw two more that were elf-sized and one that was the right size to be a first-year student, and she felt a little sick. After all that, these were lost in the stampede when Riddle died? “I…I had no idea,” she said. “I’d hoped we could get everyone out safe.”

Sonya shook her head. “Sonya is just relieved it is being over, Miss.”

“Yeah, me too.”

She spent some time comforting Sonya, but honestly, Dobby was probably doing a better job. Hermione eventually went through all the names of the fallen and recognised a few that she hadn’t known about before. Augusta Longbottom. Xenophilius Lovegood. Tracey Davis. It hurt to hear about them, but her work wasn’t done. She paid her respects and headed back to the medical tent, looking for one more person she hadn’t seen yet.

Some of the worse-injured were still in the tent. Blaise Zabini was sitting there with his girlfriend, Megan Jones. He waved to Hermione as she passed. He was missing his left arm—the arm where the Dark Mark would have been. She stared for a moment. She wasn’t sure she wanted to know the story there.

“—I’m sorry, Mr. Finch-Fletchley,” she heard Madam Pomfrey say from behind another curtain. “I can get your hands to the point where they’re stable, but I’m afraid you’ll never be able to hold a wand properly again.”

“Justin?” Hermione gasped.

The curtain parted a moment later, revealing Justin Finch-Fletchley, looking disturbingly cheerful as Madam Pomfrey changed his bandages. _Pain potions?_ she wondered. “Hey, Hermione,” he said, waving feebly with his bandaged hand. His other hand was exposed, and it was an awful red and black mass of third-degree burns.

“Justin…” she breathed. “I’m so sorry! If I’d had any idea what would happen with the sniper rifle—”

“Hermione, calm down. It’s okay,” Justin said. “I took the chance. It would have been worth it if he died, and besides, how many people can say they shot You-Know-Who?” He grinned loopily. Definitely pain potions. “Anyway, I was just telling Madam Pomfrey that a muggle hospital can probably get my hands working again with skin grafts.”

Madam Pomfrey sigh patronisingly, apparently thinking it was a side-effect of the potions. “Of course, dear. And what are skin grafts?”

He told her. She stared at him in horror. Then, Hermione confirmed it was true.

“ _WHAT?_ Do you take me for some kind of butcher?”

“They _do_ work, Madam Pomfrey,” Hermione insisted. “Without access to healing potions, muggles have learnt to work miracles with a scalpel and a needle and thread.”

Madam Pomfrey muttered “What is this, the Dark Ages?” under her breath, which made Justin laugh entirely too loud, and even Hermione couldn’t help giggling a little. “Where would you even get the extra skin?”

“I think they have ways to stretch it, ma’am. It’s more important to get _some_ healthy skin down to start it growing back.”

Pomfrey looked a bit ill at the conversation. When Hermione asked, she was all to happy to point her where she wanted to go. In the last section of the tent, she finally found the final person she was looking for.

“Septima,” she said. To her relief, she looked more or less unhurt. In fact, the reason she was in the medical tent was probably the baby who was lying in her arms, nursing on a bottle.

Septima smiled broadly when she saw her: “Hermione. It’s so going to see you up and about.”

“You too, Septima. I’m glad you made it out…Who’s this?”

She sighed sadly. “He’s Bertha Jorkins’ baby,” she said. “She…didn’t survive the battle, I’m afraid.”

“Oh no,” said Hermione. “All that time enslaved to Barty Crouch, she was finally freed, and then…”

She shook her head. “I don’t think she was ever really aware of what was happening, you know, when she was freed. Not with the aftereffects of so much time under the Imperius Curse. I don’t think she had much of a chance surviving in a firefight like that, even with other people to protect her. It’s sad, but I can’t really say I’m surprised, in the end.”

Hermione was starting to notice Septima’s rambling speech patterns again. “So what’s going to happen to him?” she asked.

“I’m going to take him in.”

“Oh? You?”

“Yes. With the war on, I’d mostly given up having any children of my own. I told you about that before…I still could if I wanted to, but at my age and with no husband, it didn’t look like my chances were good. But this boy—They told me his name was Marvolo Crouch. I’ll have to change it, of course. He can’t go around with a name like that. But he needs someone, and I’m happy to take him. With his mother dead and his father…well, _unsuitable_ , I don’t think there will be any objection.”

“Mm hm, I can see that,” she said. “Good luck.”

“I hope you’ll be godmother Hermione,” Septima continued.

“What! Me?”

“Of course. You’ve been such a good student and friend to me over the years, Hermione. I felt like you’ve been with me the whole way, even when you couldn’t be here. I can’t think of anyone else I’d rather ask to be his godmother—if you’re willing?”

“Septima, I—I’m flattered…Of course I will,” Hermione said. And why not? Harry already had a godchild after all, and he was a year younger than she was. She could handle it. “So what are you going to name him?”

“I think…” Septima stopped and stared off into space for a minute. “I think something like…Marcus. It’s a family name, you know…Marcus Aurelius Vector.”

* * *

Hermione left the tent a short time later and surveyed the camp again. It was kind of strange having people just camping out here. Most of the D.A. still had homes and families to go to, but the Order, Hogwarts Professors, various muggle-borns, and many of the wounded had stayed. About forty people, though she couldn’t get an exact count, just sitting around campfires in the shadow of what was left of the castle.

What _did_ you do when you won a revolution? A triumphal march down Diagon Alley? She doubted many of them felt like doing that right now. And this was hardly a revolution—more like the ragged survivors of a civil war.

She approached the centre of the camp where McGonagall, Hestia Jones, and several of the Weasleys were sitting. She sat by the fire, and the conversation suddenly died down as they all stared at her. That was a weird feeling. Was this how Harry felt when he first learnt he was famous?

“You don’t have to stop on my account,” Hermione said. “I’m probably wondering the same thing you are: what happens now?”

Hestia sighed. “We don’t know, Miss Granger,” she said. “The Ministry is pretty close to leaderless right now. Most of the legitimate leadership was killed or compromised in the fall of the old Ministry.”

“Thicknesse is dead,” Arthur confirmed. “We’re pretty sure he was Imperiused, but he was coming at us with lethal spells.”

Hermione nodded. Regrettable, but understandable.

“Kingsley was in the best position to take command,” Hestia continued. “We saw what happened to him. Doge was the only one of us who was on the Wizengamot, but he’s dead, too. Augusta Longbottom probably could have managed, but…”

“Well…who’s the highest-ranking person who’s still alive?” Hermione asked.

“Probably me,” Hestia said with a grimace. “I never even wanted a leadership position in the Order. And no one’s going to follow a crippled Auror.”

“You’re not crippled, Hestia,” Sirius protested from behind her.

She half-turned to look at him. “I lost my wand arm, Sirius. A lot of other injuries, it would be fine, but the people aren’t going to respect that. Right now, they need _confidence_ , and I can’t do that.”

“Who _is_ in charge right now?” asked Harry. “There’s gotta be _someone_ left in the Ministry. People have been saying all day a bunch of people came out of the Imperius Curse when Riddle died.”

Arthur shook his head: “People who are addled by Imperius exposure, Harry. Or are closet sympathisers. Or people who are still under Imperius from some of the prisoners. There aren’t many we can trust, which is why we wanted an Order member to do it.”

“And more to the point, Potter,” McGonagall spoke up for the first time, “ _We_ are the ones who overthrew Voldemort. It is our responsibility to ensure that the Ministry is functioning properly again so that the people of Britain are not harmed further by a broken government.”

That was true, Hermione reflected. The aftermath of a war could sometimes be worse than the war itself. And she supposed it was traditionally the leaders of a revolution who formed the new government (not that it always went well). The trouble was, they really _were_ pretty well decapitated. All the original leaders of the Order except McGonagall, who was no politician. All the recent Ministers and heads of Magical Law Enforcement. Who could fill the vacuum? Fudge? _Ha!_

“You know,” Sirius grinned at his godson, “a lot of people would follow Harry Potter if you stepped up.”

A look of horror crossed Harry’s face. “You’re kidding right.”

“Not at all. Slayer of Voldemort? You couldn’t get much more authority than that at a time like this. Hermione might be even better if we spread the word of how she killed Bellatrix. Hell, there might not be anyone left alive in Britain who could beat you in a fight, Hermione.”

 _“What?”_ she squeaked. That couldn’t be true!

George leaned over and patted her on the shoulder to calm her. “He’s…not wrong, love,” he said. “Seeing you fight Bellatrix like that, and with most of the strongest Death Eaters being dead…I could see it.”

Hermione blushed intensely. How did a compliment like that turn into such a terrifying proposition? “Well, I can’t do it regardless,” she insisted. “I’m still a wanted terrorist in the muggle world, and I can’t very well go to the Prime Minister like that, which we’ll surely have to to clear up this mess. Same for Harry.”

Harry’s face fell when he remembered. That was going to be a pain to deal with.

“So we’re back where we started,” Hestia said. “We need someone the people will follow reliably while we rebuild.”

“There should still be a few about,” Sirius said. “Hey, Aberforth!” he called across the camp. “You were Albus Dumbledore’s brother. Do you think you could—?”

“ _No!_ ” Aberforth growled, cutting him off. “I’m also a bloody barman, Black. If I wanted glory, I would’ve gone gallivanting about fighting dark wizards like Albus. Besides, who would follow me after the whole ‘goat’ incident?”

 _Goat incident?_ “What about other family members?” Hermione asked, grasping. “What about Cedric’s dad? Where _is_ Cedric?” She looked around and saw him chatting at the far side of the camp. “Or Neville’s Great Uncle Algie? He’s an Unspeakable, isn’t he?”

Arthur shook his head. “Amos Diggory wasn’t a Death Eater, but isn’t exactly the least prejudiced person around. He’d be better than no one, but not a great pick, I’m afraid. And I doubt you could get Croaker to changes jobs unless the sky were literally falling.”

Hermione groaned, pressing her forehead down against her fists. “There’s got to be _someone!_ Who is actually _competent_ to run the Ministry right now who’s still alive and we actually _trust?_ ”

Everyone was silent at that, some of them thinking seriously, others completely lost. But then, little by little, heads began to turn…towards Percy.

Percy’s eyes widened in horror when he saw people start staring at him. “ _Me?_ No! You can’t be— _No!_ ”

“Actually, that could work,” Hestia said, “You were the Junior Assistant to the Minister, weren’t you? You were closer to the top than anyone in the Order besides Dumbledore himself.”

“You would certainly know how to run things,” Hermione agreed.

“But that was only because Fudge wanted me to inform on the Order. I disowned my own family to get that job! I don’t deserve it!”

Hermione got up and walked to him. “Maybe you don’t,” she said. “But as far as I’m concerned, you made up for it when to sneaked out the Ministry’s plans for muggle-borns at risk of your own life. And a lot of other muggle-borns will feel the same way. I know I’m not blood to you, and only they can truly decide that. But the fact is, you may well be the best we’ve got right now.”

Arthur laid his hand on Percy’s shoulder. “Son,” he said, “that day a year ago—all you had to do that day was come back home for us to accept you back. But what you did for the Order and for the muggle-borns, that was one of the bravest things I’ve ever seen. Your mother and I am so proud to call you our son, and I know you’d make a brilliant Minister.”

Percy had tears in his eyes. Then Fred chimed in, “Yeah, you may be a pompous git—”

“—but you’re _our_ pompous git,” George finished. “Besides, haven’t you always wanted to be Minister for Magic?”

“I seem to remember a certain brother of ours reading _Prefects Who Gained Power_ , in his sixth year,” said Fred.

“Erm…yes, when I was sixteen,” he admitted, “but after everything that’s happened since then, I just can’t imagine…And really, would people follow me either?”

“Well, Sirius is right about one thing,” Hermione said. “ _We_ killed Riddle.” She motioned to herself, Harry, and Ginny. “If we back someone, it’ll carry a lot of weight…Harry, how do you feel about this?”

Harry shrugged: “It could work. I can live with it.”

“Ginny?”

“Eh, what the hell? Why not?”

Hermione hauled Percy to his feet, threw an arm around his shoulder, and grinned like she’d seen George and Fred do so many times, and she said, “Percy, Shakespeare once wrote, ‘Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them’…And we’re thrusting it upon you. Percy Ignatius Weasley, as the slayers of the Dark Lord, we hereby appoint you as the Transitional Minister for Magic. Congratulations.”

Percy swayed on his feet, then fainted.

“Ah…Well…” she said. “Oh! One other order of business: someone should go and retrieve Hufflepuff’s Chalice from the stone circle in Wellow. We can finally put the Founders’ artifacts back together.”

“I can go in the morning,” Sirius said lazily. “It should be fine until then.”

“Good. Speaking of, there’s one more thing I need to do. Where’s Ravenclaw’s Diadem?”

“Professor Flitwick has it, Miss Granger,” McGonagall said. “Although you may have difficulty getting it back.”

“From Professor Flitwick?”

“No, Miss Granger. Not from him.”

* * *

The ghost of Helena Ravenclaw stared down at the diamond-studded tiara with sadness in her eyes. She reached out to it, longing to touch it again, but knowing she never could.

Professor Flitwick was the most professional-looking of the surviving teachers. He hadn’t quite got to an actual desk, but he had magicked up a table and chairs fitting his stature that could serve, and right now, he was using that table to study Ravenclaw’s diadem with reverent hands.

“It is not right for you to wear my mother’s diadem,” Helena told Hermione shakily. “It’s power should be for her alone.”

Hermione, Harry, and Bill had met Helena Ravenclaw when they first retrieved the diadem a year ago. At the time, she had been tormented by the fact that Riddle had turned it into a horcrux, but even beyond that, she had discouraged them from using it, suggesting that it would only hurt them to try. Which it did, although Hermione had managed to harness it. “My wearing your mother’s diadem is the only thing that won the war and saved anything of Hogwarts as it was meant to be,” she replied.

“You are not even of my mother’s house!” Helena shouted, and the temperature in the tent dropped a couple degrees. “You are not worthy to bear her crown!”

“Miss Helena, please calm yourself,” Flitwick interrupted. “I have seen Hermione Granger in action, and I daresay she is more of a Ravenclaw than I am, regardless of where the Sorting Hat put her.”

“The Sorting Hat did say I’m a natural Ravenclaw,” Hermione confirmed. “It had other reasons for placing me in Gryffindor.”

Helena’s jaw quivered slightly, and it was hard to say if it was from sadness or anger. “That diadem brings only madness!” she spat.

Hermione’s mouth hung open for a moment. She was starting to understand. “It does,” she said, standing straighter, “but I think not in the way you believe.”

At _that_ , Helena’s face grew hard. “I know what I felt, girl. Jealously drove me to steal the diadem, to disown my mother, to turn my back on her in her dying hour. And when I wore it, where wisdom came to her, only madness came to me. Do you see? I tried for _years_ to make it obey me, and it would not. It judged _me_ , the daughter of its maker, unworthy. How can you, a mere _child_ , wield it when only my mother could before?” Ghostly tears began leaking from her eyes.

Hermione just sighed sadly. “I think I know what what happened,” she said. “When you put on the diadem, every…every insect buzzing through the air, every glint of sunlight, the shifting of every blade of grass came through so that you couldn’t shut it out. Your clothes felt like…like tree bark scraping your skin. Every smell made you choke. Every sight made you dizzy. The sound of your own breathing grated in your ears. And your memory was flooded with the words of every book you’d ever read until you felt like you were drowning in it.”

Helena paled, if that were possible for a ghost. She was trembling as she floated. “How…?” she whispered. “How could know that?”

“Because that’s what _I_ feel when I wear it,” she said firmly, and Helena gasped softly, her eyes wide. Flitwick was watching her with rapt attention. “You can’t control the diadem,” she continued. “You can only learn to interpret it. The diadem doesn’t owe its loyalty to blood. And it doesn’t grant wisdom either. That’s what the stories say because…I don’t think the words existed at the to adequately describe what your mother create. It opens your mind to all of the information provided by your senses, and all of your memories, that we normally shut out. Our senses show us far, far more than we realise, and we can only focus our minds on a tiny portion of it. The diadem removes that limitation. It’s incredibly valuable, being able to see everything, but you can only understand what it shows you with the right kind of mental discipline.”

“Incredible, Miss Granger,” Flitwick cut in. “For a thousand years, all we’ve had are vague speculations, but _this_ …What kind of mental discipline is it?”

“Occlumency, for a start, but it’s more than that. I think…I think I’ve been training to wear the Diadem of Ravenclaw my whole life, even though I didn’t know it. Ever since I was six years old and taught myself to do large sums in my head. My teachers, er, helped me teach myself to use that subconscious potential and focus of the mind that is needed to wield it…Helena, I don’t think you were judged at all. I think you _could_ have worn the diadem if you’d had the right training, but…”

Helena lowered her gaze, speaking tearfully, her voice breaking: “But only my mother could have given me that training…It was a riddle the whole time… _Wit beyond measure is man_ _’s greatest treasure_. The diadem serves those with the wisdom to learn.”

“I’m sorry,” Hermione muttered. She didn’t expect the conversation with Helena to go this way. She wondered if she were witnessing one of those rare events so powerful that they left a permanent imprint on a ghost’s mind.

Something had certainly changed, for the ghost looked back up, looking her in the eye. “I will grant you my blessing to wear my mother’s diadem, Hermione Granger. Though the diadem itself has shown you don’t need it, you will have it so long as you wear it in a manner worthy of her.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Lady Helena. I will endeavour to do so.” She picked the diadem up from the table and held it up to her face. There was one more person who needed her help. Now, she would see if see could truly help her.

* * *

They circled around to the west side of the Lake at sunrise. The sky was clear now, the heavy clouds vanishing as quickly as they had come when the ritual ran its course. The Giant Squid as calmed as well. Hermione had worked through the night, and the manual work she had handed off to the remaining Ancient Runes students, as she had for the Ritual of Job, but this time, they were not down by the Anchor Stones, for _this_ ritual had to be cast in the direct morning sunlight.

“Voldemort,” she muttered under her breath with a note of glee. “Lord bloody Voldemort…Emma Granger. Finally.”

With the diadem, it had been almost an afterthought to perform the inverse ritual to remove the bindings of both names on her tongue, and it felt so good to have that weight lifted from her. But this, now, was a far more important ritual.

She never could have designed it so fast without the experience from the two exorcism rituals she’d used on Harry. It worked on the same principles, which meant most of the groundwork was already laid, even though there were major substitutions. She couldn’t believe herself how fast it came together. Seized with a feverish energy, she had completed the design in only twelve hours to design it, with a few more man-hours to carve the rune stones. If this worked, she thought she would consider it her finest work—the true crowning achievement of her career regardless of everything else she’d done.

The dementor had been guarded in shifts throughout the night, and it was currently bound by a pair of glowing silver mice, courtesy of Professor Flitwick. Neville was carrying Luna’s limp body in his arms, and a few of the others had come to the western shore to see the spectacle.

Aberforth Dumbledore was there to see what he had spent all that effort guarding a dementor for, but he wasn’t exactly helpful. “You really think you can get the girl’s soul back out of that dementor, Granger?” he demanded.

“Of course not! That would be stupid…” she said. “I’m going to kill the dementor.”

 _“Kill it?”_ he said. “Granger, I heard Albus singing your praises for years, but you’re barmy. You can’t kill dementors. You can starve them if you really work at it, but they just fade away. You can’t get anything back from them.”

She gave Aberforth a sharp look: “Mr. Dumbledore, I’ve taught myself more soul magic than your brother and Voldemort put together. I’ve invented arithmantic techniques that no one’s ever dreamed of before. I have good reason to think it’s possible.”

Aberforth took it in stride. “Conventional wisdom is that the Dementor’s Kiss destroys the soul. What makes you thing you can get her back at all?”

Hermione gazed out across the Lake, basking in the morning light. _Atma Prakata_ had revealed only a black void when she cast it on the dementor—not even a black cloud, like a horcrux, but a blackness so complete that it was like a black hole, absorbing all light. There was no sign of life in there, but she felt—she _insisted_ to herself that whatever was within was merely obscured.

_“But you are now looking at the England within England, the real England just as this is the real Narnia. And in that inner England no good thing is destroyed.”_

“Faith,” she said as she recalled. “Harry, Ginny, George, are you ready?”

“Yep.”

“We’re ready.”

“Good to go.”

“Miss Granger, are you sure you should be the ones to do this?” Professor McGonagall asked.

“With all due respect, ma’am, we have the most experience with terrifying experimental rituals,” Hermione replied. They took their places in the circle.

This was a larger circle than her previous rituals. Unlike the others, this one was laid out in a square with the four of them at the compass points—Hermione with her back to the Sun, Harry and Ginny at right angles, and George facing into it, with the mirror.

Dementors embodied fear, despair, and depression, but their actual magical origin was of _decay_ , and the opposing ritual element to decay, going back to the ancient stories, was _sunlight_. “Sunlight is the best disinfectant,” they said today. It usually referred to institutional transparency (something the Ministry could very much learn from), but it derived from a literal maxim that had been known for thousands of years. Apollo and Python. The Sun and the rotting serpent. That was the key.

Wizards had tried fire and heat to kill dementors before. They had tried dragon fire. They had even tried Fiendfyre, but the dark magic would not destroy the still darker magic of the dementors. The _purity_ of sunlight, or of natural fire, was crucial to counter their dark presence. Of course, sunlight couldn’t harm dementors either, although they disliked it and would dim it if left unchecked. Seeing that, most wizards simply gave up and decided dementors were immune to heat and fire.

Hermione, however, took the muggle view, or at least what had been since the Second World War: if fire didn’t destroy it, you haven’t used a fire hot enough. And she new how to produce a heat more intense than any fire known to wizard-kind: her solar furnace. Or rather, a new solar furnace—a bigger and even more powerful one than before.

George stood beside an off-axis parabolic mirror ten feet in diameter, big enough to serve as a telescope mirror at a major observatory—aluminium foil, leached from the soil, charmed to the correct shape and a molecular polish, and fixed to an easily-adjustable frame. It would produce temperatures of over four thousand kelvins, the hottest she could find any record of for solar furnaces in her research—hotter than any solid material could withstand—she hoped, even a dementor.

“Professor Flitwick?” She gestured for him to back away. Flitwick looked pained at leaving them, but he cancelled his Patronuses. The dark aura of the dementor hit Hermione full force, but before it had time to move, she called out, _“Afise ti logos na energisei.”_

The rune stones flared to life, and curtains of energy rose along the three runic circles surrounding the dementor, trapping it for the time being. The four of them and the mirror stood between the outer two circles, while the dementor moved and began pounding on the inner barrier. They had to do this quickly.

The ritual she’d used on Harry had applied three “healing” effects to him, for lack of a better word, before striking the final blow with True Love’s kiss. This was essentially a modification of that ritual. The surface level was quite different, but in dealing with a dark spirit, the deeper structure was quite similar. It would apply three “cleansing” effects to the dementor before striking the final blow. She motioned to Harry and Ginny.

 _“Expecto Patronum,”_ they said in unison. Harry’s stag and Ginny’s mare burst forth and entered the inner circle, holding the dementor in place once again. They spoke again, saying, “With the power of Spirit Guardians, we bind the darkness.”

Chains of white light seemed to bridle the Patronuses and reached out to bind the dementor’s wrists, pulling tight and holding it fixed in the centre of the circle. Its wrists smoked at the contact, and then…the dementor _spoke_.

_“What have you done?”_

The voice was a hiss, heard more by the mind than by the ear, and even then, it hurt her ears. The dementor’s voice sounded like a dry, sore throat felt, and it rattled Hermione to the core. She’d barely even remembered that dementors _could_ speak, but they did communicate with the Aurors in Azkaban.

_“Release me, or I will devour your soul!”_

Hermione face hardened. She didn’t answer the demon, but merely motioned for George to continue the ritual. He tilted the mirror up from the ground, directing a beam of light at the dementor’s back. She could see the cone of the Sun’s rays shimmering in the air as it concentrated down to a spot an inch wide. “With the light of the Sun Ascendant, we burn away the darkness,” George said, and the impossible happened: the dementor caught fire.

A gasp sounded from the onlookers, a moment before a _shriek_ rang out across the lake—a more terrible shriek than even a horcrux made on its destruction. It seemed to fill all the notes from a woman’s scream up beyond the range of human hearing all at once, and it felt like knives piercing her ears. It was the most terrible sound she’d ever heard.

Even with the pain, she didn’t let it slow her. “With the life of the Earth, we drain away the darkness,” she said.

The dementor lurched, becoming rooted to the Earth. Its tattered, cloak-like outer skin was pulled into the dirt little by little, and tendrils of darkness snaked out from it. The grass within the circle began to wilt, turning brown and dead.

Figuring out the sacrifice of the ritual was the hardest part. She’d had to go back to her conservation laws. The dementor was an _absolute_ corruption. To destroy it, it had to be offset by an absolute corruption of a different form. Everything in the circle died—everything except the casters. She’d gone over that three times. The ritual stood on the knife edge between light and dark in that respect, but they couldn’t destroy the darkness without cost. She’d made the choice.

The grass turned brown and dead to the edge of the outer circle. It would stand forever like that. It wouldn’t even decay, for the organisms that caused decay were dead too, and it would lose its nutritional value for any new ones that entered, though they would otherwise be unaffected. Only fire would cleanse it, and even then, nothing would ever grow there again—an eternal warning to all who saw it.

She had told Professor McGonagall that the ritual would leave a permanent scar and offered to take it off the grounds, but she’d refused, saying that it would be a fitting memorial to the fallen there, and Hogwarts would always step up to help one of its own.

 _“Heeeelllp meee!”_ the dementor shrieked.

“Hermione! We’ve got a problem!” Neville called from outside. She turned and looked. Dozens of dementors were gliding out of the woods, turning the morning dew to frost in their wake. She’d thought they’d all fled!

“They’re coming back for their friend.” Aberforth growled. “They know something’s up.”

“We have to hold them off!” Neville said. _“Expecto Patronum!”_ Half a dozen Patronuses appeared around them, holding back the horde. “Hermione, hurry!”

Moving quickly, Hermione motioned for Harry and Ginny to cut off their own Patronuses. The final step had to be done without them. She stepped forward into the inner circle, coming face to face with the dementor that had Kissed Luna, looming tall over her. It was still rooted to the Earth, the sunlight burning through it, but it still called all the darkness in her to the forefront of her mind.

“I defy you!” she shouted. Defiance of the Second Death—of the _pretended_ Second Death. That was the final blow to the darkness. The dementor jerked back as if struck.

 _“Pou sou thanate to nikos? Pou sou thanate to kentron?”_ she recited, and the demon was struck again, its skin tearing where it rooted to the ground..

_“Den echete kyriarchia edo!”_

It screamed as a red glow formed on its chest, and a hole opened as the sunlight burned through. It clutched at its chest, trying to hold itself together. At that moment, Hermione saw the depth of the corruption within, and a wave of utter _hatred_ came over her that banished the darkness completely from her mind as she’d never expected.

 _“Then an experience that perhaps no good man can ever have in our world came over him—a torrent of perfectly unmixed and lawful hatred.” Perelandra_ —another C. S. Lewis, and not one she’d thought would be at all relevant to her, but she suddenly understood the words with perfect clarity. _“The energy of hating, never before felt without some guilt, without some dim knowledge that he was failing to distinguish the sinner from the sin, rose into his arms and legs till he felt like they were pillars of burning blood…It is perhaps difficult to understand why this filled Ransom not with horror but with a kind of joy. The joy came from finding out at last what hatred was made for.”_

The wasn’t like it was with Bellatrix—the cruelty, the viciousness, the desire to make her _suffer_ far beyond her usual restraint. This was so different that it was almost the opposite—the desire to destroy the dementor utterly, and the utter conviction that it was righteous to destroy it—it was _better_ somehow. So that when she raised her wand to the dementor and poured her hatred into, it was with such a feeling of lightness that she almost laughed.

_“S’ekballo eis to skotos to exoteron, esy pneuma akatharon!”_

All at once, the dementor exploded into a shower of light that shattered the walls produced by the runes and made her avert her eyes. A pulse of light magic raced out that filled her with what seemed like mania. Blinking into the light, she turned to the horde of other dementors that had tried to interfere. The stood frozen as if in shock. There was a tense moment, and then, Hermione took a step toward them and said, “Boo!”

The dementors remained still a moment longer, then turned and fled.

Everyone turned to stare at Hermione, but she was immediately focused on where the dementor had stood. Where a moment ago had been the corruption of darkness, dozens of motes of light swirled in the air, glinting in the sunlight. As she watched, they swirled up like sparks from a fire and vanished from sight—all but one. That last one flew across the field until it entered Luna’s mouth.

Luna’s body shuddered and took a deep breath, and her eyes fluttered open.

“Luna?” Neville whispered, staring down at her. “Luna, please say something.”

Luna slowly tilted her head to one side, as if in thought. “Neville?” she said. “I had the strangest dream.”

“Luna!” he cried, and he kissed her.

Hermione came over to them, exhausted, but happier than she’d felt in a long time. She stroked Luna’s forehead. “It’s good to have you back Luna,” she said wearily.

“Thank you, Hermione,” she said as Neville set her on her feet again. “Did we win?”

Hermione, Neville, and the others looked at each other incredulously. Then, Hermione burst out laughing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Afise ti logos na energisei: Greek for “Let the word act.”  
> Pou sou thanate to nikos? Pou sou thanate to kentron?: 1 Corinthians 15:55 in the original Greek: “O death, where is your victory? O death, where is your sting?”  
> Den echete kyriarchia edo: Greek for “You have no dominion here.”  
> S’ekballo eis to skotos to exoteron, esy pneuma akatharon: Greek for “I cast you into the Outer Darkness, you unclean spirit!”  
> Yes, I know I’ve been using Biblical Greek and modern Greek interchangeably. It’s hard enough to translate to just one version of the language, so I didn’t want to bother sorting them out.
> 
> Okay, now that it’s over, I can write the final list of named character deaths in the battle:
> 
> Light side: Hannah Abbott, Bathsheda Babbling, Terry Boot, Tracey Davis, Elphias Doge, Kevin Entwhistle, Seamus Finnigan, Bertha Jorkins, Augusta Longbottom, Xenophilius Lovegood, Parvati Patil, Oliver Rivers, Sophie Roper, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Severus Snape, Pomona Sprout, Tilly, Luke Westenburg
> 
> Dark side: Amycus Carrow, Crabbe Sr., Vincent Crabbe, Antonin Dolohov, Bellatrix Lestrange, Rabastan Lestrange, Rodolphus Lestrange, Lucius Malfoy, Mulciber, Pansy Parkinson, Pius Thicknesse, and Voldemort of course.
> 
> I know this seems like a lot of carnage, but the truth is that JK Rowling really pulled her punches in canon. For all the losses of characters we really cared about, she said there were 54 people who died in the Battle of Hogwarts—which had to have been a third to half of the defenders—but we only know 4 of their names (5 if you count Lavender). We probably knew the names of a solid majority of those who were there, so there ought be a lot more names we recognise on that list, and I had no qualms about fixing that error here.
> 
> Indeed, I was more concerned about the improbability of almost everyone who died in the book surviving here. I kept a lot of them alive because of my plans for the aftermath and beyond, but I considering killing many of the survivors at some point or other, especially Remus and McGonagall, and I actually did kill off Ted Tonks at first, but I changed my mind. So I hope I’ve written a balance battle sequence on the whole.


	82. Chapter 82

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: As Harry Potter from crimes would pardoned be, let your indulgence set JK Rowling free.
> 
> Well, here we are. This is the final chapter of Lady Archimedes. It’s been a long, wild ride, but I’ve enjoyed it, and I’m glad so many of you have too. I’ll be the first to admit I made a lot of mistakes with this story. I was just starting in fanfiction when I began The Arithmancer, and I hadn’t yet developed good taste in reading it, much less writing it. Looking back, at the very least, it wound up too long by half.
> 
> I’ve tried to learn from those mistakes. For example, my original plan for seventh year was to have several more raids and counter-raids with Hermione being more of a front-line fighter, and her feud with Rookwood would have been a bigger part of that. But as I went along, I realised that it made much more strategic sense for her to hang back and work on her rituals, so a lot of that was cut. That was probably for the best, since it would have made the story 10 chapters longer, and it was long enough already.
> 
> In fact, the original Harry Potter books add up to 1.08 million words. The Arithmancer and Lady Archimedes together are…a little over 1.12 million words (in practice, probably within the margin of error). I never thought I’d rewrite the entire Harry Potter series full-length, but it’s been a lot of fun.
> 
> This is not quite the end of the Great Arithmancer’s story, though. There is a sequel in the works, titled Annals of Arithmancy, but it will be much shorter and much more episodic—only 20-25 chapters. However, I’m still deciding where I want to go next with my various stories. I can promise something will be published next week, but I’m not sure what it will be, so keep checking my profile page for updates.
> 
> Also, credit to HowlnMadHowie for reminding me about Rita Skeeter.

The next day was a Sunday, and it was universally agreed that it would be a day of rest for everyone. On Monday, the fourth of May, the reconstituted Ministry would take its first steps. That day, Transitional Minister Weasley and the slayers of Voldemort all made a public appearance in Diagon Alley as a show of confidence to the people. (Under guard, of course. Barty Crouch and a few unmarked true believers were still out there, after all.) Even Luna was there, although she was still leaning heavily on Neville. She had been one of the hardest hit by the battle and had been much more subdued than her usual serene self. She’d taken the loss of her father hard even before she was Kissed by the dementor. As far as they could tell, she’d been something equivalent to comatose afterwards until Hermione killed it, but they had no idea if it did any long term damage.

Fred and George, on the other hand, had already split off to assess the damage to their shop. They wanted to be up and running again in time for the August rush.

“Obviously, the first order of business is to round up as many stragglers from the battle as we can,” Percy said. “But the problem’s ten times worse than last time. It’s not just the people who were Imperiused. They infested the Ministry from top to bottom this time, and we have to figure out who was threatened, who was tricked—”

“And who was just a thug,” Hermione added. “From what I could gather, the Snatchers weren’t true believers.”

“They weren’t _Death Eaters_ ,” Percy corrected. “There’s a lot of space between that and not believing the rhetoric. But you’re right. A lot of them were just thugs. Some of them were mercenaries. Not to mention probably more than half the werewolves in the country were at Hogwarts on Walpurgis Night.”

Something Hermione really hoped wouldn’t feed into further persecution of werewolves, but they were nowhere near that point yet. “So how are you dealing with it?” she asked.

Percy harrumphed. “Unfortunately, we’re three days behind them. We spent most of the weekend trying to vet enough Ministry people to put together a functional security force. I have some of them raiding known Death Eater and sympathiser hideouts, but I doubt we’ll find much. And all the foreign mercenaries are probably out of the country by now.”

“I suppose so,” Hermione admitted. “Oh! Speaking of which, I believe Yaxley and Runcorn are still comatose in muggle hospitals.”

He stared at her for a moment. “Right. We should retrieve them, too. Anyway, the parchment trail isn’t great either. Thicknesse was maintaining the trappings of a functional Ministry, but they weren’t exactly recording the most insidious stuff after I stole the records last year—or they put it behind layers of obfuscation.

“I also went to the Prime Minister over the weekend. I showed him what documents we had, including the part about them framing you and Harry for the hospital. Honestly, the muggle relations are going to be the biggest pain in the arse. The Prime Minister said he wants to keep a closer watch on us from now on. I don’t think he trusts us.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” Hermione said, “although it will make things difficult.”

“Well, I petitioned the ICW to see how much they can do, and I moved Cresswell over to head the Muggle Liaison Office. He can probably do the job better than I can. I don’t think it’ll be more than a couple days before they clear your names. Cresswell just needs to work with them to make up a plausible story.”

Hermione nodded. She supposed it was too much to ask to be able to show her face in the muggle world again right away. Meanwhile, in the magical world, people were staring at them as they walked down the street. A few fled from them when they saw them. Others ran up to shake their hands, and the guards had to hold them off while they searched them—although that was more Harry’s problem. Word had certainly spread of the carnage at Hogwarts, though, and her part in it in particular. Not to mention killing a bloody dementor. That might be even scarier than what she did to Bellatrix. She could see the fearful looks she got here and there. Hopefully, that would quiet down, too.

Ginny spoke up from behind them, her voice cold: “That still leaves a couple hundred of Voldemort’s army out there somewhere.” She looked around suspiciously at the people on the street. “Too many people got away last time, and now this?”

“We ought to be able to identify a lot of them, shouldn’t we?” Hermione suggested. “Plenty of us saw them.”

Harry started suddenly, and Ginny turned to stare at him. “Dumbledore’s Pensieve,” he said. “It’s still in the castle, right? We can use it to get the faces of everyone who was there.”

“That’s a good idea, Harry,” Percy said. “I’ll have to ask McGonagall if she can recover it. That should at least make finding them all easier.”

“ _Finding_ them, yes,” Hermione agreed, “though I worry that will be the easy part. We know some of them were definitely Imperiused.”

“Well, that’s what I was saying,” Percy continued, “and maybe even worse, there are so many who just went along with what the Death Eaters said without joining the fighting, and for any number of reasons—all the witches and wizards who never raised a wand to us, but agreed with them nonetheless. If we try to root them all out, the Ministry won’t be able to function as it stands.”

“Except that leaving them be is what let the blood purist ideology survive for so long,” Harry said.

“Just get rid of all the Slytherins,” Ginny suggested.

“Not all Slytherins are bad, Ginny,” Hermione said.

“I know they’re not, Hermione, but it’d be a lot easier to avoid people we can’t trust—”

“Ginny,” Harry said softly. She turned and looked back at him, and she backed down. Hermione could guess what they were thinking. Harry himself could have been in Slytherin. So could Hermione, for that matter. They couldn’t judge people based on a glorified personality test administered by an old hat when they were eleven.

“It’s not going to be easy to find a solution,” Hermione said. “After all, the muggles had a whole plan drawn up in advance for denazification in Germany, and this is nearly the same problem, except in scale.”

Percy stopped. “De-what?”

“Hm? Oh, denazification. In World War II—Grindelwald’s War, Grindelwald’s muggle allies were called Nazis. They had a blood-based ideology similar to the Death Eaters—in fact, so similar that I think the Death Eaters copied a lot of it. Anyway, when the Nazis were deposed, the Allies set up a program to root out their ideology from top to bottom, and they called it…denazification…Why are you looking at me like that?”

Percy was staring at her with a gleam of excitement in his eyes. “Hermione, I think that’s exactly what we need,” he said with a grin.

“What, denazification? Or, I suppose the word would be different. De-Death-Eater—? De-Voldemort—? De…mortification?” That one actually sounded pretty good, but the meaning wouldn’t be so clear to the average wizard on the street.

“You can call it whatever you want,” Percy said. “I’m putting you in charge of the committee.”

_“What?”_

“We clearly need something like that, and you seem pretty well informed about it. As Transitional Minister, I’m appointing you the Head.”

“But—you—” Hermione stammered, then she scowled. This was payback for making him Minister, wasn’t it. “ _You_ should’ve been in Slytherin, Percy. And quit laughing, you two,” she snapped at Harry and Ginny. “You helped make him Minister, too. I’m sure he can find something for _you_ to do.”

* * *

Obviously as part of the rebuilding, they needed to survey the Ministry. They Flooed in since Harry and Hermione couldn’t go by the surface streets, and they again had to go through a lot of security, naturally. Hermione wasn’t so sure it would stop a determined attacker who had time to prepare. She could certainly think of a few ideas. But as broken as the other side was, she doubted there was that much risk. Even with Barty Crouch out there, there was only so much he could do alone.

Crouch was still at large, but the raids that morning _had_ netted a few valuable people from the various hideouts around the country. The most notable was a haggard-looking blond women with an infant in her arms.

“I’m telling you, I don’t know anything that’s been going on,” Narcissa Malfoy protested. “Lucius ran off to fight at Hogwarts and didn’t come back. The next thing I heard from anyone was when Aurors showed up at the door this morning to tell me my husband and sister were dead.”

“You expect us to believe you didn’t contact anyone?” demanded a wizard Hermione didn’t know and who might not have even been an Auror. “For three days?”

“I felt the pulse of magic in the wards Friday morning,” Narcissa said. “I saw the clouds blotting out the Sun. I wasn’t going to go out that day. No one came by the Manor anymore except my family and the Dark Lord, and you tell me they’re all dead.”

“And yet for two more days, you didn’t leave the house?”

“I was waiting for word. I wasn’t going to leave Columba not knowing what was out there. If the Dark Lord had fallen, I was afraid of exactly this happening, or worse.”

Hermione stopped to look. She couldn’t really see the baby girl from there. Columba Malfoy. The Dove. What was Narcissa thinking when she chose that name, weeks ago when Voldemort still seemed ascendant? She leaned over to Percy and whispered to him, “You might ask if one of the Tonkses will come in and talk to her. She might cooperate more with a familiar face.”

Percy considered that and nodded, and he soon tracked down a clerk and sent the message. They continued touring the Ministry from there. She grew more worried about the documentation when he showed it to her. It was worryingly thin with plenty of room for plausible deniability. When Voldemort died, there had apparently been a fight in the Ministry, with the true believers trying to destroy the documentation that would implicate them, and their own side trying to save it, so a lot of it was incomplete.

Until, that is, they got a very lucky break when a woman approached them in the Atrium with a sheaf of parchment six inches thick.

“Excuse me, Miss Granger.”

Hermione did a double take when she saw her. The voice was familiar, but she almost didn’t recognise the face that went with it, but then she gasped: “Rita Skeeter?”

Rita looked completely different after being in hiding for so long. Her two-inch painted nails were gone. Her rhinestone-studded glasses were replaced with black plastic frames. Her starched, blond curls were limp and stringy—and _brown_. She looked…normal.

“Yes, Granger, you _are_ the one who employed me.”

“Well, yes. It’s just, I’ve been hiding in the woods for the past three months. I’m afraid I forgot.”

“Wait, you employed _her_?” Percy said. “For what?”

“To document the crimes of the Death Eaters… _Minister?_ ” Rita said. Her wicked grin with her three gold teeth came back, and she was unmistakable then. She held up the sheaf of parchment and leafed though a few of the pages for them to see. “And believe me, I’ve got _quite_ the juicy tale to tell here.”

Percy’s eyes widened. “You got copies of the missing documents?” he said. “The _real_ documents, not the stuff you made up.”

Rita glared at him. “I’ll have you know, Minister, that Little Miss Perfect here ordered me to make my truth above reproach as a condition of the job, and frankly, _this_ truth needs no embellishment.” She giggled: “You may make an honest journalist out of me yet, Granger.”

Percy turned to Hermione questioningly. “I hired her as a spy and a propagandist working with the Creevey Brothers before we went off the grid,” she explained. “But mostly, I wanted her to tell the true story so no one could deny it later. And…it looks like she came through.”

“Bloody hell,” he breathed. “Miss Skeeter, I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I can’t thank you enough for your help. This information could be invaluable for bringing the remaining Death Eaters and their sympathisers to justice.” He reached for the documents, but Rita pulled them back.

“Ah, ah, ah, Minister,” she said. “I do expect my fee for this work. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait till the book comes out.” She turned to Hermione.

Hermione closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “I’m afraid I’m a bit short on galleons at the moment, Rita,” she said. “I may have mentioned hiding in the woods. But I’ll be good for it in a few months.

Rita’s smile worryingly didn’t falter: “Well…perhaps we can come to another agreement. If you guaranteed me some amnesty for the dirt Miss Prissy has on me, I could consider it a reasonable advance.”

Percy raised an eyebrow at Hermione: “Dirt?”

“She’s an unregistered animagus. And…if you give me amnesty for how I found that out, we have a deal.”

“How did you find it out.”

“We don’t have to talk about that,” she said quickly.

Percy grumbled a bit about disregard for the law, but he had mellowed out a lot over the years. He took the deal. Now, they had the evidence they needed, although Hermione still wasn’t sure what she was going to do with the committee Percy had assigned her.

The matter of other magical races was considerably more complicated. The goblins had done well enough for themselves in the war, but there had been deaths, and they didn’t give a whole lot of consideration to the internal politics of wizards, so even with the new regime, relations with them were shaping up to be very poor. Probably a solid majority of werewolves were personally culpable for their actions in the battle, let alone the whole war under Greyback, which would make things that much harder for those who weren’t. The merpeople were none too happy about them rousing the Leviathan with that ritual. No one had a clue what to do about the Acromantulas, and the giants who were involved were all technically foreign nationals, although she wasn’t sure if any foreign government would claim them.

“Percy, what _is_ being done about the giants?” she asked when they came to that.

“I’m not sure yet. I talked to Hagrid, but he doesn’t seem to think giants have much in the way of funerary practises.” There had been six giants at the battle besides Grawp, and all of them were dead. “We’ll probably offer them the bodies, and if they don’t want them, we’ll probably just cremate them. It’s easier than trying to bury them someplace they won’t be found by muggles.”

Hermione frowned. “I think you should talk to Hagrid again before you make that decision,” she said. “But if it won’t offend anyone, I’d like to take some tissue samples from the bodies.”

Percy stared at her in surprise. “What, you mean for potions ingredients?”

“What? No! I want to get DNA samples!”

“D-N-A samples?”

She sighed. Wizards knew _nothing_ about this, did they? It was only discovered in the fifties. “DNA is a substance in the body that is responsible for inheritance. Your red hair, for example. All of you Weasleys have red hair because you inherited a certain pattern of DNA from your parents, and that applies to everything about you. The muggles have a process called cloning. It’s…” This was going to go badly. “It’s sort of like an alchemical process. It’s still being developed, but in theory, if you have a sample of any kind of creature’s DNA, you can create a copy of them—or of their body, rather. It’s like an identical twin grown up from an infant.”

Percy gaped at her. “Are you serious? Ugh, of _course_ you’re serious. You’re _you_. That’s mental! I don’t think actual alchemists can do that, and you’re saying muggles can?”

“In principle, they can, although in practice, they haven’t done it with anything more advanced than a sheep, and that will very low success, but they’re improving it all the time.”

“Bloody hell! And the giants? What do they have to do with it?”

“Giants are nearly extinct,” she said. “Hagrid said there are fewer than a hundred of them left, and it sounds like they’re killing each other faster than they’re being born. They just lost six more, and attrition and inbreeding will probably wipe them out completely within our lifetimes. But if we get as many DNA samples from them as we can, then maybe if, in twenty or thirty years, we can clone enough of them, we’ll be able to save the species. Honestly, I don’t know if we can put together a viable breeding population now, but it worked for the California Condor.”

Percy continued to stare at her. “You know what, I’m going to let you take charge of that project, Hermione. Talk to Hagrid, and talk to the giants if you need to. If fact, you might make a good choice for a new ambassador.”

Hermione gasped: “Oh, no you don’t, Percy! You already gave me one job, and I haven’t even finished my schooling yet!”

“It _would_ work,” he insisted. “The chief of the giants is supposed to be the strongest, and I doubt anyone in this country would challenge you for the title.”

She scowled at him: “Don’t you have other people to boss around, _Minister?_ ”

“Oh, I’m sure I could find someone,” he said with a chuckle.

* * *

Hermione did had one more stop to make in the Alley that day, but this one she wanted to make in private.

Ollivanders Wand Shop had been boarded up for most of the past two years, ever since old Mr. Ollivander had been kidnapped by Death Eaters. It had been robbed multiple times of portions of its stock, and it had been a burnt-out husk the last time she had been in Diagon Alley. After eighteen months trapped in the dungeons of Malfoy Manor, Hermione wouldn’t have been surprised if Ollivander had chosen to retire to some tropical island, but she was heartened to see that today, the door was back on its hinges, and Garrick Ollivander was in there, organising the remaining wands back on the shelves. With him were his son, Gerald, and his grandson, Garrett, who were helping clean and repair the ruined building, along with a woman she guessed from context was Gerald’s wife.

They all stopped and looked Hermione’s way when she came in the door, and old Mr. Ollivander smiled.

“Bless my soul, Hermione Granger!” he said. He was walking with a cane now, but he hobbled over as fast as he could to shake her hand. “It’s so good to see you well again.”

“It’s good to see you too, Mr. Ollivander,” she said.

“I can’t thank you enough for rescuing me from that dungeon in January, Miss Granger. I’m terribly sorry about what happened to William that night—and all those we lost hence.”

“Thank you. It’s…it’s been a difficult time.”

“As it has for us all. But how can I help you today? Were your wands damaged in the battle?”

She shook her head. “Not in the battle, no, but I did come to ask you about one of them.” She pulled out her red oak wand and showed it to him. “You see, this is—”

“My goodness!” he exclaimed. “What have to done to this beautiful wand?” He seized it from her hand and examined it closely. The once-lovely reddish-brown wood carved with a double helix design was now stained ebony-black from butt to tip. It still seemed to work fine, but it worried her, as she had never seen anyone else’s wand behave that way. Ollivander looked around and quickly led her into the back room, away from his family. Then, he examined it carefully. “Possibly young Garrett’s finest match to date,” he said. “Red oak and dragon heartstring, eleven and three-quarter inches, nice and—nice and springy…” He tried to bend it and looked closer in surprise. “It’s not as flexible…Miss Granger what is this—this filament stuff? What on earth have you wrapped around it?”

“It’s a graphite derivative,” she told him. “I put it around both of my wands. It’s extremely strong, and I think it’s saved them more than once from breaking.”

“Hm, I worry that you’re not allowing them to bend adequately. Wands can be very sensitive to such things, you know.”

“I haven’t noticed any change in its function. It’s just the colour—”

“Yes, yes, the colour…” He pulled a jeweller’s loupe from his pocket and examined it still more closely. “Well, the runes aren’t damaged…” He ran his fingers along the shaft. “The core is still healthy…The good news is, it seems to be intact, Miss Granger. But what _have_ you done to it?”

“Mr. Ollivander, this is the wand that slew a dementor.”

Ollivander gasped softly and looked down at the wand with renewed reverence.

“And certain other really scary rituals that many people would probably call dark on their face, but were actually designed to _cleanse_ dark magic.”

“Merlin’s beard…I had heard of your feats, Miss Granger, but slaying a dementor…cleansing dark magic, you say?”

“Yes. Dark magic twisted into something light, you might say, rather than the reverse.”

“Aha. That would explain it, then,” he said. “It’s not unheard of for a dark wizard’s wand to undergo changes when long exposed to dark magic. I saw He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s wand when I was in captivity—once a handsome yellow wand bleached bone-white. Or a Cursebreaker’s wand might suffer damage from the curses it is exposed to. But _this_ is somewhere in between. To manipulate dark magic so intimately, more so than a Cursebreaker—even to twist it to the light, as you say—will change a wand with enough exposure.”

That was half-encouraging, Hermione thought. At least she hadn’t done anything terribly wrong. “My wand isn’t bleached, though,” she said. “It almost looks like it’s been charred.”

“It has—and it hasn’t,” Ollivander said. “It isn’t an effect you could achieve with fire-charring. That would destroy a piece of wood this small. I’m afraid the exposure to the darkest of magics has done damage to it—damage that not just any wand could survive. An apple or pear wand, which abhor dark magic, might have shattered if they tried to do what you’ve done. But red oak is hardier than most when it comes to dark magic, and as your wand has survived thus far, I believe it’s a sort of damage that will make it stronger, on the whole. I suspect it _has_ lost some flexibility—perhaps even some structural strength, and you merely haven’t noticed. But the dark magic has caused it to undergo a sort of magical charring that will make it more resistant to magical damage in the future—probably more resistant to fire, water, and rot as well. In fact, I believe I’ve heard of that technique being used in Japan, but I’ve never seen it done. I will say this, Miss Granger: if you are planning on performing more feats like the slaying of a dementor, you have one of the finest instruments possible in this wand.”

That was a relief and a warning to Hermione, knowing she had probably made her wand better for what she wanted to do, but she would need to be watchful for any cracks or other deeper damage. And she was more sure than ever that her decision not to use her vinewood wand for her rituals was the right one. “Thank you, Mr. Ollivander. I’m glad to hear that,” she said, taking her wand back.

“It’s my pleasure, Miss Granger. And I look forward to hearing of your exploits in the future.”

* * *

Three days later, in a fairly nice apartment in the suburbs of Adelaide, Australia, an ex-pat dentist logged onto the BBC News Online. What he saw nearly made him drop his coffee.

“Oh my God! _Emma!_ ”

Emma Granger rushed into the room. “Dan! What is it?”

“Look!” He pointed at the screen.

 

_Suspected Terrorists Potter, Granger Exonerated_

_Real Bomber Killed in Raid in Scotland_

_The Security Service announced on Wednesday that Harry Potter and Hermione Granger, previously implicated in the Nottingham hospital bombing in January, are in fact innocent of the crimes of which they were accused. The bombing at the University of Nottingham Hospital that killed twenty-two and wounded dozens was actually carried out by a known IRA ringleader named Tom Riddle, who framed Potter and Granger for the act, officials said. It was also announced that Riddle and much of his cell were killed last Friday in a predawn raid in the Scottish Highlands._

_Investigators began to suspect that the evidence involving Potter and Granger was fabricated after several more bombings that implicated Riddle directly showed similar patterns. Potter and Granger themselves were also revealed to have been police informants on still more cases involving Riddle, a fact that was either misfiled or buried by IRA agents within MI5 and was only rediscovered later._

_Once the truth was uncovered, MI5 reached out to Potter and Granger, and they worked together to determine Riddle_ _’s location. Last Friday, they finally located him in a remote hideout at an undisclosed location in Scotland and attacked in a predawn raid. Riddle was killed, and nearly every member of his cell was killed or captured. Only one member escaped, a man named Barty Crouch. Crouch is considered to be a tactical genius and is heavily armed, and he should not be approached._

_“The Security Service is indebted to Harry Potter and Hermione Granger for their tireless work in bringing Tom Riddle to justice, even when our agency shamefully turned against them. Their contributions to the final assault will be remembered, and we wish them the best as they rejoin civilian life,” said MI5 Director General Sir Stephen Lander._

_Tom Riddle was believed to be the last holdout from the IRA who did not sign the Good Friday Agreement last month._

 

“Oh my God,” Emma breathed. “Hermione’s alive. Riddle—that’s him, isn’t it? The dark wizard?”

“It must be,” Dan said. “I think…I think the war’s over.”

“We can go back?” she said with tears in her eyes.

He considered that for a moment. “We still have that contact for the Australian Ministry for Magic. I think we should check with them just in case, but then? Yes, we can go home. We can see our daughter again.”

* * *

Hermione cried as she hugged her parents. She almost couldn’t believe they were back. They’d returned sooner than she’d expected, having been given a priority international Portkey direct from Sydney on Saturday morning. She barely knew what to say to them, so much had happened in the past sixteen months, and a lot of that first conversation was a blur to her. She only remembered some of the highlights.

“I’ve killed people,” she said.

Mum and Dad didn’t let go of her. “We knew that was probably going to happen, the way you were talking,” Dad said. “And we know you didn’t really blow up that hospital.”

“I made mistakes, though,” she said. “Mistakes that got good people killed.” _The hospital was the worst one._

“That comes with the territory,” he said comfortingly. “You can’t be perfect. I’ve never been a soldier, but I know enough to know there will be regrets. The important thing is that you tried your best.”

“I did a couple of things that probably overstepped the Hague Conventions.”

Dad pulled back far enough to look her in the eye, his eyebrows raised.

“Magical Britain isn’t a signatory to them, and they definitely deserved it…And magic in general doesn’t exactly fit into the neat boxes of the muggle laws of war,” she babbled. “But…it’s made me a bit afraid of my own temper.”

Mum and Dad pulled her into another hug. “The fact that you _are_ a little afraid is good thing,” Mum said. “It means you’re still a good person at heart. And you know we still love you no matter what you did.”

“I got engaged.”

_“WHAT?”_

Mum wasn’t angry. In fact, she was beside herself with excitement. And Dad just gave her a knowing smile like he’d expected it the whole time. They congratulated her and George and greeted the rest of the Weasleys warmly. And thankfully, they didn’t ask too many questions about Harry and Ginny, although they were a bit unsettled by them getting engaged at seventeen and sixteen.

The one difficulty was figuring out where to put them. “I wasn’t expecting you back so soon,” Hermione told them. “I’ve just been staying with the Weasleys since the battle.”

“I’m sure we can find a flat,” Mum said.

She shrugged: “Your practice is closed down. There’s still a few Death Eaters out there who won’t be happy you’re alive. And the Burrow was destroyed, so we’ve been staying at the manor Molly inherited from her aunt. It might be easier to put you up with there until I make enough money to buy you a new house.”

“Buy us a new—? Hermione, you don’t need to buy us a _house!_ ” Mum said.

“It was my idea to burn down our old one,” she said. That still sounded insane to say out loud. “Besides, world renowned jeweller? Or starting to be, anyway. I’ve got quite the backlog of orders, being on the run for the past year. It won’t take long to make a down payment.”

Mum and Dad looked at each other. “I’m not sure what kind of world we’ve fallen into when our eighteen-year-old daughter casually offers to buy us a house before she’s finished school,” Dad said.

“I suppose we could stay together for the summer if the Weasleys don’t mind,” Mum suggested. “It’s been so long since we’ve been able to spend time with you.”

“I’m sure they’ll love to have you,” Hermione said. “And it’s no trouble. It’s a big, old house…Honestly, I’m not sure what we’re going to do with it once everything’s settled.”

What the Weasleys would ultimately do with Prewett Manor had been the elephant in the room for the past week. Arthur and Molly weren’t the type to want a stuffy manor house. The Burrow might have been a bit crowded, but it was a _home_. Besides, they still owned the land where it stood, and they were sure to want the open space for their grandchildren to play Quidditch someday. Ron said they mostly thought Muriel was too stubborn to die for another forty years, so they didn’t have to worry about it, but now, that had changed.

Fleur, Charlie, and the twins all had their own places, although she and George hadn’t talked about what they would do after they got married yet. Ginny and Harry had Grimmauld Place if they wanted it. Ron and Percy were the only ones who might really want the manor—though if they didn’t, maybe Hermione’s own parents would be interested, she thought idly.

In any case, Molly and Arthur were happy to have her parents join them at Prewett Manor, and they were soon moved into one of the spare bedrooms. There were a lot of tears and horrified exclamations as Hermione told her story over the next few days. She couldn’t very well hide her scars or cover up what happened to her in Malfoy Manor. When she told that, she thought for a minute that her parents would order her to go back to Australia with them, despite the fact that the war was over. But with time and not a little pain, they came to terms with it—not that they entirely approved of her own activities on the run, either.

“I haven’t fully unpacked myself yet,” Hermione told them the night they arrived as she helped them get settled in.

Dad gave her a puzzled look. “Unpacked? Didn’t you say you were living in the woods for three months? What do you have to unpack?”

She smirked wearily. “You should see the clutter I’ve built up in my Mary Poppins handbag, Dad, even after I had to replace it. I’ve still got a _lot_ of stuff in there that I need to dispose of safely.”

“Dispose of safely?” Dad said. “What do you mean?”

She rolled her eyes. “I need to empty it out sooner or later. Come to my room, and I’ll show you.”

Mum and Dad both followed to her room, where she set her handbag on the floor and began pulling her supplies out of it. “I’ve got some manna.”

“Manna?” said Mum.

“Completely synthetic foodstuffs. Made by rearranging the atoms in wood and dirt—with a few clever alchemical tricks. Perfectly nutritionally balanced and eight hundred calories per brick. Here, try some.”

She tossed a block of manna to them, and they each took a bite. “Wow. It actually tastes like cakes made with honey,” Mum said flatly.

“Of course. I worked hard on those flavour molecules. Anyway, I’ve still got about a week’s worth in here. Then there’s…let’s see…lots of notes, of course. And blocks carved with runes for half-conceived rituals. I’ll have to cut those apart so they don’t have any magical interactions. Rune-carving tools. Magic-enhanced guns—Say, do you know if the Firearms Act specifies the method of propulsion for guns? Like, does it apply to air guns and stuff?”

“I…don’t know offhand, but I’d think it does,” Dad said.

“Well, this thing’s illegal as hell, then.”

“Hermione!” Mum scolded.

“Sorry, Mum. Being in a war, I’ve picked up some habits. Anyway, other weapons. You’ve seen Snickersnack, of course. Er…explosives. C-4, C-4, more C-4. Why did I make so much C-4?” she asked as she piled an alarming amount of plastic explosive on the floor like building blocks.

_“C-4?”_

She shrugged as if it weren’t a big deal. “I was getting desperate. Anyway, hand grenades. Smoke grenade, tear gas, knockout gas, flashbang even though I didn’t need it.”

“What’s this one?” Dad picked up one she hadn’t identified.

“Nerve gas.”

_“WHAT?”_

“Don’t worry. I didn’t use it.” _Though I might have if Bellatrix had given me the chance._ “And I can decompose the molecules and make it safe. I just went a little crazy toward the end, throwing together anything I thought might be remotely useful.”

“You…you weren’t kidding about the Hague Convention thing, were you?” he said faintly.

“It wasn’t as bad as you’re probably thinking right now, Dad…But I admit I tested an awful lot of stuff. Like this one: chlorine trifluoride. Nasty stuff. It burns _anything_. Chews through sand like sawdust. And some sulfuric acid. I’ve got some rocket fuel here. And then there’s my older stuff. My complete collection of elements leeched from the soil.” She pulled a box with many chambers with small blocks of metals of various size in it.

A flash of worry came over Dad’s face, and he grew stern, standing over her. “Hermione, if you built a nuclear weapon—”

“No, I never found any rich enough uranium deposits,” she said casually.

Her parents looked at her in horror, but after a minute, she started to laugh. “You should see your faces! It was just a joke. Honestly, what would I ever need a nuke for?”

“Hermione!” Mum exclaimed.

“ _And_ I wouldn’t. If there’s one thing both of our worlds don’t need, it’s magical nukes.”

“Honestly, Hermione, that’s not the kind of thing you joke about,” she said.

“George would beg to disagree,” she said, “and I think I’m on his side. The way things have been lately, if you can’t take it easy and laugh about these kinds of things, you’ll break down sooner or later. I’m sorry if my activities scare you. They scare me a bit too after the fact, but it was war, and I did what I had to.”

Mum sighed tearfully and pulled her to her feet to give her a hug. “We never wanted this kind of life for you, Hermione,” she said.

“I know, Mum. Neither did I. But it’s _over_ now. Voldemort’s gone for good. Britain is finally safe. I can go back and finish school, get my mastery, get married, and…just live a normal life.”

Mum chuckled: “Hermione Jean Granger, if there is one thing you’ll _never_ be, it’s ‘normal.’”

Dad laid a hand on her shoulder. “You know we’ll love you no matter what you end up doing,” he said. “And we’re so proud of you for stepping up the way you did, no matter how frightening it was for us…There’s just one thing we need to make clear right now, young lady.”

“What?” she asked.

“If you become a Third World arms dealer, we are _not_ bailing you out.”

She laughed loudly at that, and even Mum couldn’t hold back. It was good to be a real family again. “I love you too,” she said.

* * *

It was about a week after the Grangers moved in that Hermione failed to come down for dinner. Fearing that she might have fallen back into her old habits and was forgetting to eat again, George ran upstairs to make sure she was okay. When he saw her, his jaw dropped.

“Merlin’s beard! _Guys! You_ _’re gonna want to see this!_ ” he called down the stairs.

A minute later, half the Weasley family and the Grangers were crowded around Hermione’s door, staring at the sight. Hermione was wearing a loose, black robe that billowed around her…and she was floating in midair.

“I am _such_ an idiot,” she said.

“You…you figured out Voldemort’s flight spell?” Harry said in shock.

“No. That’s the beauty of it,” she said. “Voldemort didn’t _have_ a flight spell. He just wanted us to _think_ he did—something he could do better than I could. Like I said from the start, it was just to look scary.”

“Then how was he flying—how are _you_ flying?” Harry asked.

“I didn’t tell anyone, but I scanned Voldemort’s body before we cremated him, just in case there was a clue, and there was,” she said. “Voldemort was wearing a robe made from a flying carpet.”

Several of the Weasleys slapped their foreheads. “Ugh, it’s so obvious!” Ginny said.

“We never would have thought of it because flying carpets are embargoed in Britain,” Percy said. “I hate to say it, but that was really brilliant of him.”

“So this is the project you’ve been working on all week?” George asked. “Copying his trick?”

“Uh huh. But, er, would you mind not telling anyone else it’s a trick? It would ruin the mystique.”

Her fiance grinned at her: “Well, who are we to say no to Lady Archimedes?”


End file.
